Psychosocial
by have-a-great-day
Summary: Meet Charlotte Lewis, a detective for the NYPD working as a profiler. At work, she's considered an annoying know-it-all and at home she's lonelier than most people would be comfortable with. Not even a pet to keep the silence out and a secret so large that it weighs down on her very soul. What happens when the BAU comes in and drafts her as a member of their team? Spencer X OC
1. Chapter 1

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

"Lewis! Get in here!"

My captain hollered my name, for the umpteenth time, and I had to roll my eyes. I kicked my feet off of my desk, and laid down the ball of elastics that I had been fingering for the last hour and a half. I had been waiting for the ballistics report from the 6th serial massacre shooting of a family in the city of New York where I was residing. The criminal's MO had been to break into each home in the dead of night, and shoot one bullet from a double action revolver, a Bulldog .44 Special. It's not the usual weapon of choice, because it's so big, but because of the limited backlash, I guess it was the best.

I strolled into Captain Stevenson's office, a smug smile etched onto my face, which soon dissolved as I took in the somber and very tense atmosphere the room had taken. Standing in the corner were 3 of the 7 people I would have liked to have never seen again. Now that they were here, I knew shit was real. For some reason, whenever BAU was in the vicinity, things went bad to worse in a blink of an eye. Oy vey.

"Sir, is there anything specific you needed?"

I made a point of not looking over to them, and I could tell Stevenson was noticing. There was a giant, pink, dancing elephant in the room, and I was doing well to ignore it. I didn't want to acknowledge them being here, because it would only cause a cluster fuck of problems for me later on.

A sadistic smile worked up Stevenson's face, and I internally cringed. I knew what was coming, I knew him well enough to know what he-

"You are going to liaise Dr Reid, SSA Agent Hotchner, Rossi and Morgan around as they work on the case."

I froze, and immediately had to reign in the urge to roll my eyes straight into the back of my skull. For Gods sake! He's only doing this to piss me off. I'm the team psycho-analysis technician, not a fucking nanny. I didn't need this right now. I was sure he could tell, as he crossed his arms over his shoulder, and rocked back onto his heels - a clear sign of assured dominance. Fucking idiot.

I huffed under my breath, and nodded, with a streak of defiance in my posture. My vision rolled over to the group of stragglers that I had been assigned to, and, again, nodded my head in a show of good sport, and recognition. I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth; everybody and their mamas knows that BAU always get the most action.

I guess it's like a two sided coin, right? On the one hand, I think their trumped up asshole alpha-males, but on the other, they are always in the field, travelling from place to place, in the heat of the battle, always thinking in the moment. I relished in that feeling, I missed it. I hated being forced into office duty, not being able to do what I was supposed to do. I was a pseudo-cop, nothing more, nothing less.

If I hadn't gone on that fucking case, I would still be out there. Protecting those who needed it, and kicking ass and taking names like a field officer would. But no, 6 months ago, I was shot in the left pectoral, just over 4 millimeters from my heart, and I was called out of action. I had been told, no I was _ordered _to stay off duty, and honestly, for the first few months, it was awesome.

Everyone was in and out of my hospital room, coddling me like I was some precious jewel or something. I mean, I felt like a princess. It was only when the boredom set in, and the nights became cold and unnerving, that I noticed that something was really, truly wrong. The following day, I had been told by my commanding officer that I was being taken out of the line of duty, and I could literally feel my heart break. I might as well have died in the shooting, because the shame I brought on my father was almost palpable.

He never requested a visited, and whatever letters I sent to him were faxed back, unopened and seemingly untouched. He hated law enforcement. He said it was 'unbecoming of an intelligent and forthright woman.' What utter horseshit. He just didn't like the fact that I was living alone, making my own money and keeping myself afloat. He always wanted me to depend on him, and that drove me up the wall as a child.

I was always the disappointment, even though I was an only kid. The judgmental glare he would send me, every single time I would do something that wasn't quite 'his' way, he would always cut into me. Always insulting and chipping away at my self confidence. I grew up to hate him. I truly did. My mother left when I was only 3 years old, having moved away to live with some guy half her age, and honestly, fucking good for her.

From what I hear, she's fairly happy, she has a family - a son around 19 years old although I had never met him, or even her husband, Rodrigo. I only know about them through detail letters I receive in the mail every year, on my birthday, from my mom. It gives me little satisfaction to know that at least she hadn't completely forgotten about me.

I came from a family of Italians on my mothers side, and Greek on my fathers, so I had a fair bit of culture in my heritage; of which I was thankful. I liked being able to speak different languages, and eating foreign foods all the time, just because I had the knowledge on how to correctly prepare it.

I was fairly tanned, even bordering on a healthy golden-toned glow, which contrasted brightly with my sharp grey eyes, flecked with sapphire blue and gold. My hair was honey toned, and a very light brown, almost like a deep ash-blonde, and fell is very strong, curly ringlets, past my shoulders and fluttering against the middle of my back.

I went through elementary and middle school being the odd, mixed race, social pariah, which I soon became used to. The heckles and abuse that was shouted at me across the playground became nothing but background noise, and I truly stopped caring what others thought of me. It was almost amusing to look back on those times, and all the days I would go home and cry my heart out all because I didn't know why people didn't like me.

I didn't do anything to them, yet they hated me. It was down to my skin colour, of course, but also my intelligence. It frightened people. I knew it did. The glances that were shared between the adults around me always made me slightly uncomfortable, but I liked to put it across that it didn't bother me much. That was were it all began I suppose.

The hard edge to my eyes crept in over the years, and my smile lost its validity. I soon stopped being that innocent, loving girl that everyone expected me to be, and turned into a hard-assed, workaholic, who had no time for anything but education. I kept my head down, and instead of going out to the parties and the get together, I stayed at home, working. I was quite content in doing so, too.

The only downside to being at home was being around my 'dad'. I couldn't really call him that, because I was the reason the house still functioned. From a young age, I was propositioned into cooking, cleaning, taking care of myself and my drunkard father, because if I didn't, we both would have gotten into deep shit. My dad never once put his hands on me, so there was never any physical abuse. It was all mental.

The alcoholic slurs he would hurled at me, and the collection of all of the anger and hatred he held for my mother and her abandonment tumbled out whenever a touch of liquor hit his lips, he just turned into something else. I shiver to think of the days were I was too young to even understand what was going on, let alone realise what I was doing to make him upset - however I would always find myself crying, alone, every night as I heard the glass colliding with the light brown walls, or the insults being thrown around.

I had a fairly normal childhood, on the surface, but below that, I was truly miserable. Nobody deserved that.

**Okay... What do you think?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

I led the members of BAU down into the cockpit of the room, all of us were standing directly opposite the transparent glass boards, that we used for evidence and data logging. This was my job. This was what I was good at. I mean, PhD's in mathematics, engineering, quantum mechanics and forensic science came in handy when it came to cases like this. I heard light mumbling behind me, and I glanced backwards, catching the eye of one Spencer Reid, the child protégée and one-man-surplus-of-information.

It was almost funny considering he had so much general knowledge stored inside his mind, it almost gave me a head ache thinking about it. I mean, I had a great memory, I needed to if I was going to study, memorize and understand all of the subjects that I did at university, but his was just ridiculous. It was frightening, and a little bit endearing, if I were being honest. He was tall, almost lankily-so, but it worked for him. His slacks lay low on his hips, and his white, button up was tucked into his trousers. He wore a thin, pinstripe black tie and a obsidian waistcoat over his shirt.

He was a very handsome young man. He was a strong 27 years old - only 4 years older than I am right now. His hair was cropped short, and curled outwards, making it seems very outlandish and uncontrollable. For some reason, I was attracted to this hair cut - it suited his face. Walking along beside him was Derek 'I-Like-To-Fuck' Morgan, and his stupid, bright, wolfish grin adorning his face. His head was shaved, and there was a light stubble adorning his cheeks and chin. Lord, he was charming. He was about 6 foot of pure chocolate deliciousness, and I could only imagine how he acted in bed.

At those thoughts, my eyes flew open and a light blush coated my neck, and I turned to face forward once more. I didn't need that distraction. He was nothing more than a distraction. A very sexy, hunky, muscular dist- DAMN IT. I rolled my shoulders and took in a deep breath. Next to Morgan was Hotchner, and boy was he a worry-wart. His face was completely stoic, giving no indication of how he was feeling or even what he was thinking. On the surface, he either seemed furious or just detached. For a person who spent all of his time studying others, he sure as fuck perfected a way to show as little emotion as possible. I needed to learn this from him.

Beside Hotchner was Rossi, and he seemed to be very relaxed and impassive about the whole situation. His dark-skinned, stubble-covered face held a small crooked smile as he took in the whole NYPD office. I forced myself to push my straying thoughts out of my mind, and walked even quicker, if that was possible. They kept up, easily, of course, the trousers I was adorning left little to no room for free movement. I knew I had put on weight after my stint in hospital, and I would have to book an appointment at the gym, to make sure I worked myself into an early coma.

Oh wait, bad joke. After pushing open the doors that would lead me to my untimely figurative death, I led the group to the centre, immediately falling into the details of the case, who and what suspects we have in mind or in custody, and answering any questions thrown at me. If I were to be labelled as anything, it would be a stickler for details.

"So.. We're looking at a white man, between the ages of 25 and 35. He would have recently been released from prison, having served time for something menial, like robbery or grievous bodily hard. He grew up in a home without a mother, she probably left him and his father for another man and family, which is why he spends a lot more time working on the women, rather than the fathers. The fathers all had been shot, close range in the chest, directly in the heart, killing them instantly. The mothers, however, were tied down, forced to watch as their families were killed and then, after approximately half an hour, they were shot, once in the chest, and one in the face - making the attack far more personal. Every family had children, two as a matter of fact, and they were gunned down in their beds, while they slept. The coroners said that they died after the father did," I looked down, grimly, and clenched my fists lightly, the anger swelling in my gut, and I continued, "This unsub is intelligent, but very withdrawn from society. He probably suffered some kind of abuse at the hands of his father, which is why he takes out the men first, seeing them as danger, and ultimately more powerful than he is. This indicates that the perpetrator is slight in build, maybe even weak in some people's opinions. He is the type of man that everybody over looks; the janitor, the plumber, the engineer. Someone who nobody looks at twice. This enforces his inferiority complex, and this is his way of acting out, so to speak. Also, he's unable to think for himself. Or at least when it came to the weapon of choice. The Son of Sam used the same weapon in his own crimes, and it seems like he almost had to coast off of the accomplishments of others."

I had been speaking with my back to the group, using my hands to properly convey what I was speaking about, and as I turned around, I noticed the questioning, and almost irritatingly surprised, which in a way, sort of pissed me off. I read their books, both Gideon and Rossi, I needed to, if I was going to be a good profiler. Why would it be surprising that I did so? Who did they think I was? Oh please.

"Well done, this is very interesting. You've given us a very detailed template; do you have any suspects in mind?"

**Because I'm really crappy with keeping up on schedule, I'm giving you guys a second chapter. I hope your happy with it :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

I shook my head, and pulled out a manila folder, with the picture of the premeditated portrait of the potential suspect inside which was on the desk nearest to me, and I slid it into Hotchner's hands. After looking through it quickly, he passed them onto Morgan, who then passed it onto Reid and then finally onto Rossi, who slid them onto the table near him after he read through the files briefly. The visual that we predicted looked similar to this: the unsub was of a slight, meek build, short in height - between 5 foot 7 and 9, and is fairly young, considering the circumstances. It's probable that this guy, whoever he is, suffers from a mental condition; possibly schizophrenia or acute paranoia.

"There is a direct correlation between having schizophrenia and the increased rates of antisocial behaviour in general and violence in particular, according to Dr Hodgins and Muller-Isberner. Studies show that 5-10% of all those awaiting murder trials suffer from schizophrenic disorder. It has been shown that up to 11% of homicide offenders and up to 9% found guilty of non-fatal violence related crimes suffer from schizophrenia. It's a common thing, however it's rapidly becoming less and less valid in court."

Spencer seemed to reciting this patch of information verbatim, however he appeared to be almost disinterested with what he was saying. He checked his nails, and rubbed imaginary lint off of his shoulder as I was forced to stand on, mouth agape and shock written across my features.

I chuckled lightly and said, "People weren't kidding when they said you knew specifics, huh?"

He simply coughed out a laugh, and raised an eyebrow in my direction. Sarcasm suited him like a second skin, the sardonic little shit. My grey eyes gleamed in a sudden strip of sunlight that fell directly into my face, and I was forced to squint in return. I flipped my squared thick-framed, black Ray Ban glasses from atop my head as it was tucked into my tightly wrapped, light-brown bun, and pushed them onto my nose.

"Well, either way, we've got an unsub who doesn't want to be caught - otherwise he would have contacted the media, or even attempted to inject himself into the case. He's naturally shy, and reserved; he doesn't believe he's worth much, although his confidence _is _boosting with each kill. I expect that he is searching for some kind of recognition, and if we diverted that attention to someone or something else, he might get angry. An angry unsub equates to a sloppy one."

I smirked as Morgan finished his piece, and I nodded in approval. I had said this from the beginning, but nobody listened to me. I bet now they all would listen, those damned heathens. I pushed off of the desk I had been leaning on, I believe it was Sergeant Rogers' if I wasn't mistaken, and I walked over to my own. I slid back into my swivelled chair, and kicked off my black suede platform heels, and nudged them under my desk. Rolling my neck and ankles in time with each other, I wriggled the mouse, and my computer started up again. New York wifi was always so slow; there were always too many people surfing the web during the day.

Hotchner, Morgan and Reid all picked up different tan folders, and went about walking towards the boardroom, where we would normally hold meetings. They were going to have to work on their own shit right now, because I had things to do. I carried on with what I was doing before I had been drudged out of my lair, I.E. my small-as-fuck cubicle.

I tucked my feet under myself, having to adjust my skirt by hitching it a little higher for me to get comfortable, and I released my hair out of it's restraining bun, having it explode out in a mass of uncontrollable, messy curls. I ran my fingers through it, trying to tame it, and rolled my shoulders, popping my knuckles and toes, smiling contentedly to myself.

Without focussing too much on the time, I carried on typing away, creating profiles and working on blueprints for possible unsubs, which sounds fairly simple, but in reality? It's a gigantic pain in my ass. But it helped, even I had to admit that. It was the foundation of every case we take on, and it was necessary for success. I hated doing all of the paperwork, it just bored me to absolutely no end.

A sharp clatter to my left brought me out of my zone, and I looked around for the first time in however long, and saw that I was one of the only office-workers left. I rubbed my eyes, and stretched my hands out, like a cat, and I glanced down at the digital clock that adorned my desk, and written in the blaring, bright red numbering stated '21:14pm'. Shit, I had been working for over 6 hours, and I hadn't even noticed. I felt my stomach grumble, and the burn of hunger settle deep in my tummy. Oh, I need to eat.

I stood up, slipped on a pair of socks that were hidden in my slide-out drawer, and rolled them on. A pair of white Converse were laying face down next to the socks, and I pulled them on, afterwards. I was not wearing those death trap shoes for any longer than I needed. I'm sorry, but heels _hurt _like a motherfucker.

I picked up my wallet, and pulled out 30 dollars. I tucked the money in my shirt pocket, and I flipped on my black blazer, and fastened up the final two buttons, making sure my collars were neat, and my cuffs weren't messy. After tying my hair up with the disused elastic band, so that it was back in a messy high, curly ponytail, I began walking out of my office.

Only to bump directly into the chest of a very tired Spencer Reid. Well, _god damn_.

**Hope you like it guys :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay. First of all, I don't own Criminal Minds. Secondly, let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

"Oh, I'm sorry, hey - well, oh dear, I-I'm.. Goodness me-"

I was too busy fussing over the now coffee-stained shirt adorning Reid to really realise what I was doing. And what I was doing was rubbing my hands back and forth across his chest, trying to remove the discolouration, even though I knew it was futile. This shirt was ruined. It was a light cream, maybe a beige shirt, and the coffee mark was directly in the centre, colouring the whole of his chest, making his clothes seem almost transparent.

Standing so closely to him, I could smell his woodsy scented cologne, and I couldn't help but keen a little. What?! I'm a virile young woman! I'm allowed to do this! Don't question me! The planes of his chest were light, but very neat and defined, and I could see the outline of his strong obliques and abs. Oh God, I need to open a window, because it is getting _hot _in here.

I stepped backwards, and tentatively glanced upwards, noticing the sharp glint in Reid's eyes, and I couldn't help but lower my gaze a little. He was upset that I was touching him. _I mean, who wouldn't be? _I had to hush those bitchy voices in the back of my mind that always made second guess everything that I did. That was the reason why I refused to divert from my strict schedule. Yeah, I'll work hours, but I wont go out afterwards - to whatever club the team went to, or out to eat when they did. I liked to eat alone, I didn't like being watched it made me uncomfortable.

Speaking of being scrutinized, I looked back up again, and saw that Reid was watching me, with a very confused and incredulous stare, and I suddenly had the largest urge to just flat-out run to the sanctuary of my home.

I went about stepping around him, and although he reached out for me, he dropped his hand when he realised it wasn't the smart thing to do. I kept walking, with my head held high, and pressed down on the elevator button. I tried to stop myself from twitching on each foot, because come on, that was dead giveaway of nervousness, and I could almost feel the gazes burning holes in the back of my head.

Finally, the elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside, quickly pressing the G for Ground Floor. There was no music to distract me, so I was left alone with my thoughts, of which weren't at all as nice as they should have been.

The elevator pinged, and I stepped outside, in the foyer. The floor was covered with expensive and very clean carpet, and the stainless steel, futuristic-styled receptionists desk sat adjacent to the revolving doors. I nodded at Gregory, the bellhop slash receptionist, and received a scathing glare in return. O-kay, somebody's having a rough day.

I walked out of one of the side doors, instead of using the revolving ones, and was almost immediately hit with a scent that could only be described as New York. There was a mix pf hot dog stands, freshly pressed linen and new, Italian leathered shoes all swarming through the air, and it was just brilliant. I took in a deep breath, and a big, bright smile carved itself onto my face. I loved living here in The Big Apple - it was one of the most fast-paced cities in the whole world, who couldn't love living here?

I was very privileged in that securing this job, with it's pretty amazing pay, I was able to score a classy apartment in upper Manhattan. It took about half an hour to get from my house to the NYPD headquarters - on the train anyway. Driving was almost hell on Earth in the mornings, and especially at peak times, around noon and 5pm.

Because it was dark out, there weren't many people around, so it was fairly easy to find my way through the cluster of crowds and whatnot, and I got to the Spanish deli around the block fairly quickly. The air was a little chilly out, so I had to draw my blazer in on myself.

I chose a circled table nearest to the window, and I sat down, watching the people as they walked by. It was nearing Christmas, and the festive holidays were affecting everybody. Families were walking, talking and laughing, making memories together, made to be remembered for years to come.

When the waitress, a young girl, around my age came over to my table with a fairly small smile on her face, and asked for my order. I requested a large spicy chicken tortilla wrap and sautéed potatoes, drowned in gravy with a side of sweet chilli dip.

It was December 16th 2012, and here I was, sitting alone in a deli, waiting for food that cost more that it probably should have, and watched people who had more than I ever would. Really, was it so bad that all I wanted was a family? A pair of loving parents, and maybe, when I was ready, a family of my own?

The arrival of my meal interrupted my thoughts, and instead of focusing back on it, I went about digging into my dinner. It was nothing but delicious, of course. The chicken was tender, the pitta was crisp and the potatoes were cooked to perfection.

This was my favourite place to come for cuisine like this, as it always made the best quality dinners. It was quaint in size, and rather fancy on the inside. There was a lot of browns and creams complimenting each other, making it feel very homely and safe inside. They liked to keep it calm and relaxed, and for that I was thankful.

It took me little over half an hour to finish my meal, and I quickly left, having left some money in a little black dish, and began trudging to the train station that would take me home. The air had gotten significally colder, and I regretted my decision to not wear tights today. I walked a little faster, hoping that I would get to my destination quicker.

The warmth from the station was a welcomed one, and I let out a sigh in relief. I sat down on the wooden bench, and crossed my ankles together, looking over to the digital timetable and seeing that the train was due in just over 6 minutes.

"Hey, sweetheart, how are you doing?"

A deep voice spoke up directly next to me ear, and I froze in surprise.

I bristled slightly, and my tone could have frozen heated coffee, "Sir, if you do not step away from my person, I will not be held accountable for my actions."

Obviously, him being a douchebag, he took this as a go-ahead to touch my person, and I immediately grappled his hand with both of my own, twisting it slightly at the wrist, and thrusting my thumb at the juncture between his palm and forearm, pushing downwards and keeping it that way until he cried out a little, and half-way begged me to release him.

Instead of my voice being calm or cold, it was almost mocking as I said, "You understand me now, sir?"

He nodded quickly, and I smiled scornfully as I watched him hobble backwards towards his 'home-boys', rubbing his wrist, trying to relieve the pain. This seemed to take up most of the time, because before I knew it, the train was whooshing into the station, and I was seated in a brightly coloured seat, watching the dimly-lit tunnel of brick walls flash-by. I hadn't realised it, but somehow I had fallen asleep along the way.

**Okay, hope you liked it.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Coming to work the following day sucked. Firstly, I had been startled awake in the wee hours of the morning by a phone call. A shrill, piercing ring tone that shattered the reverie of a dream that I couldn't quite remember, and the gruff, angry voice of my captain rang into my ear drum. There had been another murder. A family of four, like the others. Two little girls, one of eleven and the other of only five. Shot and killed in the same way. The mother had been tied to the headboard of the bed, but this time, instead of just being mutilated then shot, she was raped, maimed and then killed.

The rape was a new development. He was getting more confident in his kills, even more so that before hand. We needed to catch this son of a bitch, and quickly. He had already murdered seven different families, all from different ethnicities, and separate parts of the boroughs in New York City; two in the Bronx, another in Brooklyn, one in Queens, another two here in Manhattan and the final, and most recent, in Staten Island. Although they were all in different jurisdictions, the state of New York realise that the NYPD is needed on this case.

I rolled out of bed and immediately went about starting my day. I skipped breakfast, settling only on a hot cup of bitter, sugarless coffee, which would always wake me up, although it was pretty gross to drink. After finishing my cup, I jumped straight in the shower, and started scrubbing away the previous day. I washed my hair, and quickly rinsed my body off. Wrapping a towel around my body, I padded out of my bathroom, and I went into my bedroom, and threw on a pair of clean, plain underwear, and two pairs of nude tights - learning from my mistake yesterday.

I pulled out a pair of deep navy peg leg trousers, and a button up cream blouse, along with another blazer, this time it was blisteringly red, coupled with a pair of red heels. I packed a pair of sneakers in my low-hanging dark coloured handbag, as I would everyday, and dropped it by the front door. After I smeared vanilla scented creams into my skin, I speedily went about brushing my teeth and washing my face, removing any trace of sleep or dirt from my skin, and went about dressing myself as quickly as I was able.

Stevenson ordered that I was up and ready in the office within the hour, and I knew better than to piss him off during a case, especially one as dangerous and emotionally trying as this. With this in mind, I began blow drying my hair, and running a comb through it simultaneously; thank God for being ambidextrous. I was done in minutes, and I threw my hair up in a high ponytail, however unlike yesterday, instead of it being curly like yesterday, it was near enough dead straight today. It was longer when I blow-dried it, and now, even though it was so high, it brushed the middle of my back in soft, honey waves.

I dressed myself very quickly, and as fast as I was able, I did my make-up; a thin layer of make-up and an even narrower swipe of liquid eyeliner, flaring out at the sides, to elongate my lids. I applied red matte lipstick, and a brush of bronzer on to my cheekbones, checking my phone soon afterwards. It had just gone 7:16am, and I internally groaned, cursing everyone who was able to sleep late today. I mean, come on, it's a fucking Wednesday - nobody should be able to sleep late in the middle of the week.

Before I stepped out of my apartment door, I took a moment to mentally scan through everything that I should have with me, and making sure I hadn't forgotten anything. My purse, manila folders, sneakers and phone were in my bag, and my train card was in my FBI badge, which was attached to my trousers, hidden snugly by my brightly coloured blazer.

I closed and locked my door behind me, and began the short walk to the train station, that would, once again, take me to my work place. I didn't own a car, I believed that they were ridiculously expensive as well as the traffic during the day was positively disgraceful. It took me just over five minutes to walk to the station, and the train arrived every ten minutes, leaving me with little over half an hour to get to work.

As I walked into the station, I saw that the train was docked, and I had to hobble towards it, catching it at the final moment, and sitting down in the nearest seat, directly next to the blessed radiator which, thankfully was vacant and clean. I enjoyed the rest of my fifteen minute train ride by reading the free New York Times that the train system offered to every passenger in little bassinets near every automatic door.

I had just finished a story, ironically enough, about the case I was on, and I had to admit, these paparazzo's seem to only ever get more creative with age. Apparently, this bastard had been dubbed the 'Midnight Murderer'. We hated labelling these sons of bitches, it always seemed to make the situation more comical, when in reality, it really fucking wasn't. It's pretty annoying, especially when you're trying to solve a case when the media is involved, especially so deeply.

Before I knew it, we had arrived at the stop I needed, and I left the train station, noticing the chilly air around me, and I grumbled a little to myself. Instead of catching the bus, I decided to walk the distance, as I knew waiting for it would only make me more late, and therefore more _wrong _in Stephenson's eyes. The journey from the train station to the NYPD central hub wasn't as long as I had thought, and I arrived within five minutes.

I checked my phone as I was in the elevator, and it read 7:47am. I was later than I would have liked, but either way, I was within the hour limit, and in that Stephenson better be happy. The elevator pinged, and I stepped out, only to walk straight into pure anarchy. Papers were being handed out, people were shouting and hollering, and I could almost feel Stephenson's glare from clear across the room. I shimmied out of my blazer, and hung it on the back of my chair as I passed it, and sashayed straight into his office.

"Sorry sir, I got here as fast as I could. How can I help out?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because aint nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

I received a scathing glare from Stephenson, and I couldn't help but flinch a little inside, and I outwardly bristled. His tone was brittle and smothered in subdued anger and he spat out, "You're late."

I raised an eyebrow and lilted, "No, sir, as a matter of fact, you told me to be here within the hour. You called me at 6:56am, and I got to work for 7:47am. I still had just under 10 minutes. If you wanted me in earlier, you should have shortened my delegated time frame."

My tone was completely smart-arsey and I knew I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help it. I didn't like being accused of shit I didn't do. Especially considering I didn't even really like Stephenson. He's my Captain, so I showed him the necessary respect and loyalty, but I really didn't like the way he handled his team. A Captain's team are supposed to be an extension of himself, and if we took that in a literal form, he really didn't give a fuck about himself.

He stood at around 6 foot, and was broad and beefy enough to scare half of his quarter into being his bitches. His hair was a light brown, and matched with his forest green eyes, he wasn't bad on the eyes, but his personality truly made the monster inside him slither out. He was rude, loud, boisterous and just plain unprofessional when it came to the workplace. Don't get me wrong - there was never any sexual or emotional harassment, because most of the females in this department could, and probably would given the chance, kick his ass 6-ways to Sunday.

After my sassy counter to his obvious attempt at embarrassment had his purple in the face and a vein popped in his temple. Before he could speak, however, a knock on the hard-wood door, and both out attentions diverted onto an unsuspecting Detective Morgan.

"Stephens- Oh, my bad, sorry. I didn't realise you were busy. I'll come back later."

Just as he closed the door, I called out, "Hey, no, we're finished, go ahead - he's all yours, Detective."

I stepped out of Stephenson's office with a grin plastered to my face, and a newly energised pep in my step. After my back and forth with Stephenson, I felt a burst of life surge through me. Knowing that I had brought one up over him made a warm glow flitter through my body, and I found myself feeling rather positive, although the days that had preceded today hadn't been happy ones.

Instead of walking to my desk, I walked straight to the self-serve kitchen of sorts, complete with a mini-fridge, sink and coffee machine, of which I would fully exploit. I switched on the machine, and waited until it sounded off, alerting me to the water being boiled inside. I unsheathed a sachet of coffee, and two packets of brown sugar, and emptied them into the mug I had specifically bought for occasions such as these. I pressed the circular button, and watched as a trickle of boiling water fell into the mug, and smiled in satisfaction when it was done.

I used a small spoon and circled it in the mug, fully fusing the coffee and sugar molecules with the water ones, making the perfect cup of coffee. I carried it carefully to my desk, wary of spilling a single drop as well as making sure nobody was within my perimeter as to not recreate yesterdays mishap with Reid.

Thinking of the deductive detective, I wondered idly if he was already in the office, and glanced once around to see if I could see him, and frowned a little when I couldn't see him. I shook my head and cursed myself for being so stupid. I mean, he was part of the FBI, and he probably had better, more interesting things to do pertaining to the case - so why did I feel my good mood deflate a little when I couldn't find his mop of messy dark brown hair, or his more-green-than-hazel eyes?

I plopped back in my seat, and slipped my legs under me, but not before kicking off my heels, and tucking them under my desk. I pulled out a small notebook, and uncapped the nearest pen, running over my previous notes quickly; quicker than the average woman, mind you, and delved straight into my work.

Before I was able to truly get into the groove of things, I felt a light tap against my shoulder, and when I glanced up, I was shocked to see SSA Hotchner staring down at me. My mouth suddenly went dry, and I couldn't do anything but blink. He wasn't angry, not in the slightest, but his glare felt so intruding, I didn't quite know how to respond to it.

My voice was shaking, and I mentally face-palmed myself, "O-Oh, hey Sir, is there… Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes.. Please follow me, Detective Lewis."

There was no room for argument, so after I slipped on my red heels, I was able to do nothing but pursue him, like a lost puppy dog.

"So, erm, Sir, where are you taking me? If you don't mind my asking," I received nothing but a quirked eyebrow in return and I quickly ended my rant with, "Sorry, yeah, shutting up now."

Instead of walking out of the doors like I had first assumed we would have done, he led me to a big, squared glass-windowed room, with a wide, circular table inside, filled to almost bursting of tan coloured files, papers and profiles of different types of suspects, videotapes, crime scene photographs and all sorts. My eyes were almost bursting with the amount of information that was in that room.

Hotchner pushed open the door, and kept it open, indicating for me to walk in before him, and I did so, with a questioning expression on my face, but that melted away when I made eye contact with a tuft of choppy brown hair. He was head-first in a manila folder, and wearing a pair of thin framed, circle lens glasses, and I swear to God, I have never seen someone look so cute in such a serious situation.

Blushing lightly, I prayed that my bronzer covered the flush of face, and I sat down in the only free seat, which was far less comfortable than the one I was used to, and I crossed my ankles, giving Hotchner my full attention.

Hotchner called for quiet, and all eyes were on him. He cleared his throat, and he began speaking, "Okay, this is Detective Charlotte Lewis, and she has been drafted in to work alongside with us on this case. Now that we've got fresh eyes, we should be able to see things that we haven't been able to before. So.. Lewis, can you tell us anything more on your specified profile? Something that we haven't noticed beforehand?"

Throughout his entire 'speech', I had been staring directly at Hotchner, my mouth agape and my eyes wide as saucers. Who told him that I was coming in on the case? I was only supposed to do paperwork? No, this was wrong. What's going on?

"No.. Sir, I think you're mistaken. I haven't been brought in on anything; I normally do office work. Now I work with facts and figures, I don't do the fieldwork anymore. I'm sure you're mistaken."

My voice was questioning, but there was a sense of certainty. He had to be mistaken, I havent been out in the field in over 8 months. Don't get me wrong, I would love to, but I didn't want to get my hopes up. Even with the thought of my accident, I unconsciously pressed at the scarred bullet hole that shattered my collarbone and was lodged in between my shoulder blade and spinal cord. It was still there, they couldn't remove it without running the risk of permanently damaging my back, and making me paraplegic.

Hotchner chuckled a little, and I thought the world was going to end. He replied with, "I assure you, Miss Lewis, I'm not mistake in the slightest," He pulled out a folder with my name scrawled in black marker across the front and continued, "Says here you were in the centre of a hostel hostage situation, and you went against protocol to save a young girl's life, correct?"

I nodded in response; my mouth apparently having fallen off in the last few moments. He's profiling me. That son of a bitch!

"You were shot, close range, and the bullet lodged itself between your second vertebrae and the corner of your shoulder blade.. You went down, however somehow pushed on and got the hostage out of there and back to her family, only to collapse seconds after exiting the situation. You should have died, your injuries were far too severe, but they saved you. You've been off field duty for the last 8 months, why?"

For a moment, I couldn't speak. The air having seemed to have been forced from my lungs, and I could feel myself swaying lightly. I steeled myself and took in a forced, deep breath. I needed to take control of the situation, damn it!

My voice was devoid of emotion, and the life that was in my eyes bled out as I spoke, "I took a leave of absence, and eventually, my position was handed to someone else. Nothing more, nothing less."

I could feel the questioning glances, but I didn't have it in me to respond to them. There was a reason why I didn't delve into the last 8 months, I simply got on with it. It was what I was good at. Coping, I suppose.

"If you wouldn't mind, I would like to get back to my desk now. Thank you for the offer, but I decline."

I stood up, and as slowly as my raging emotions would allow, I started walking towards the door. Only to feel a heavy, warm hand enclose around my wrist, and a light tug in the opposite direction.

"I know it's difficult to adapt to these situations, but we need you to. Now, I know it's hard, but we all need to come together, and work as a team. Just.. If you can, think about it."

It was Morgan, I could tell by the deep baritone voice that was right behind me, as well as the light twang that only came from Chicago, where his file said he hailed from. I nodded, if only minutely, and he released me, and I continued out of the door - straight to my desk, and I groaned. My fresh coffee had gone stone cold in the time I had been there.

**Okay, thanks for reading, and if you really liked it, please review! Have a great day, my beautiful people!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

The rest of the week went as such, and by Friday night, I felt beyond exhausted, both mentally and emotionally. It was like I couldn't bear to even lift a finger, let alone actually make myself something to eat, so as soon as I got home, I barely had time to undress myself before I was hurtling my body into bed and sleeping soundly. The weekends were always the best days for me, not because I could skive off on the job and just sleep all day, but I was able to get more work done because I was more relaxed and content at home. I slept for almost 10 hours, and woke up at 8:13am, feeling completely refreshed and recharged.

I rolled to the side, and pulled out three separate folders out of my bag, splaying them out in front of me. In folder one, there were three lists of names. BAUs own technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, had narrowed down the list of men from the 697 that matched the original profile, and then when she coupled those criteria with the possibility that they had just gone through a fairly messy divorce or separation, as the rape that happened in the last murder that implied he has started to devolve.

He's changing pattern. Between the last two murders, he had to have split up with a significant female partner. We say female, as if he was homosexual, he would have mutilated the father, rather than the mother. Now there were just over 147 names, addresses and photos and honestly, that was a brilliant improvement. We were able to quarter them off, into separate groups, one with the men between the ages of 25-30, another between 30-35, and the final were the anomalous results, the ones that weren't exactly plausible or correct. We didn't rule them out, however, as it kept the clusters open to manipulation.

There were more names in the 25-30 bracket than the 30-35, and that was where I decided to start working from. I skimmed through every name, and highlighted the ones that seemed the most likely to have suffered the most severe stressors. The unsub who committed these murders had no children, or at least they have had no contact with whatever children they do have, so I searched for recently divorced men, without any offspring, and a job that disallowed working during the day. By the time 3 o'clock came around, I had hacked through the list almost 8 times, and there were just 16 names left.

Oh Stephenson better kiss my ass when he sees what I've done. I kicked off my duvet, and placed the folders on the bedside table, and shimmied on a pair of fluffy slippers and my night gown that was hanging from a nail directly above my bed. I tied the lavender ribbons around my waist, and I walked into my bathroom and turned on the shower. As quickly as I could, I brushed my teeth vigorously and I ran a flannel over my face. By the time I had finished, the medicine cabinet slash mirror above my sink was foggy, and the squared floor length one was dripping with condensation.

I hung the dressing gown on another nail in the cupboard which held my boiler inside, and I undressed myself, jumping straight in the shower. As it was a Saturday, I was able to take my time washing my hair and body, and when by the time I got out, I couldn't wipe the smile off of my face. My skin was red and blotchy from the severe scrubbing and my hair had turned a chocolate-brown and stuck slickly to my back in wet ringlets. I dried my arms and my legs then wrapped an especially fluffy towel across my body, and slipped on the silky dressing gown over my shoulders once more.

I decided that today was going to be an incredibly lazy day and I couldn't think of anything more I'd like to do than sit around my apartment and eat myself into a food coma. I threw on crisp, simple black underwear and I draped the towel over my hair and I went about drying it. By the time I had finished, my 'hair' had turned into a silky mass of what I could only describe as a birds nest. It was just so messy! I searched on my shelves to find the hair serum that would help me control it, and after warming it between my fingers, I ran it through my hair from the scalp to the tips. After a while, my hair began becoming more controlled, and I tied it back in a simple side pony, plaiting the ends to keep it neat and tidy.

I threw on an oversized maroon t-shirt from my pyjama cupboard and I slid on my pair of black glasses that I used only while I was at home. My apartment was of a simple design and most of my means were predictable ones. It was the size of a fairly upscale condo, but only had a single floor, like most apartments did. I had a fairly minute kitchen by family standards however it was more than large enough to contain everything I needed as the only habitant. The colour combinations in my apartment were black and white in my bedroom, cream and beige in my living room and a grey and chrome kitchen. I liked being able to have designed my living area myself without the aid of anyone else's help, especially my father's.

I had a fairly sizeable television in my living room, and three separate couches, two of them singular and the other a three seated, leather brown sofa, and the floor was laminated, however there was a bulky squared, spotted, shag carpet beneath the futons. My bedroom walls were all white, except for the largest which was jet black, along with the carpet and the roll-up blinds hanging from the bay window.

My bed was fairly wide in length, and large in size, and the mattress was comfortable as anything could be. The kitchen was moderately new and contemporary, with everything being silver and shiny and made of marble. I was happy with how everything worked out together and I had to admit, it was pretty awesome that I had done it all myself.

I walked into my kitchen, and immediately flipped on the kettle, silently begging for my not-so-morning afternoon coffee. In the meantime, I decided to make myself a turkey sandwich, and by the time I had pulled out the ingredients, the kettle sounded off, whistling, breaking the silence of my apartment. I picked up a purple mug from a cupboard underneath the marble sideboard and filled it up with two spoonfuls of coffee and four sugars; exactly the way I liked it.

I poured the hot water into the mug, and stirred it all together, after adding semi-skimmed milk to the concoction. I spread butter, mayonnaise and turkey slices to the pieced of bread from earlier, and I carried it to the living room, plopping down onto the sofa and wincing at the chilling temperature of the cold leather against my bare legs.

I slid the plate and cup of coffee on coasters on the glass table in the centre of the room, and I picked up the remote, switching on the television, only for the first thing I see was a story. A story run by those god damn paparazzo's about our killer. I saw Agent Jareau standing on a podium, surrounded by at least a dozen journalists, giving some kind of speech about how all women must be careful and whatnot. This isn't what was supposed to happen.

This was wrong! They were going to get another family killed! This killer is meticulous, he isn't going to stop just because we tell people to be wary of him. This is NYC. Barely anybody actually likes to cops, let alone actually listens to them - and this was going to get them all killed. We needed to find this son of a bitch; and quickly. There was going to be another murder before the end of the day.

Throwing the remote down into the couch, completely forgetting about my turkey sandwich and I yelled out in anger, "Damn it!"

**I'm eternally sorry, my beauties, I've been in Switzerland for the last week and a few days, having the time of my life, skiing up and down the mountains and slopes. Wow, guys, you don't understand how beautiful it was over there, but I missed you guys. Now, please, if you're still with me, read, review and favourite, if you'd like.**

**I love you guys, and have brilliant days!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Even though I wasn't on the rota to work weekends, I knew that it was a consequence of working in this industry, therefore I knew it would only be a matter of time before Stephenson called for me to come into the office. As quickly as I was able to, I packed up all of the newly acquired information and I dressed myself for comfort rather than style today - a pair of slim fit denim jeans, a pair of clean, fur-lined boots and a button up white shirt, tucked into the jeans. I threw on a thick, knitted grey sweater over the shirt, and then an even thicker deep green cardigan over everything else.

I released my hair from the plait I had left it in, and I ran a thickly bristled brush through it, letting the curls and waves fall prettily over one of my shoulders. I left my glasses on, as I was really sick of wearing contacts to work. They irritated my eyes, and always made me tear up when I put them in in the mornings. I picked up the handbag with all of my belongings inside it, and instead of catching the train, I walked out of my apartment, caught the nearest elevator and continued down the complex out onto the sidewalk.

I hailed down a cab, and I slid in, sitting in the back, and said, "Cabrini Boulevard, please."

The cab ride was particularly short, and quiet, thank God, and I spent most of the time running through the names on the list one last time, having written down short notes on the findings I had uncovered earlier that day, and I couldn't help but smirk in satisfaction. If I give this information to whomsoever needed it, probably Garcia as out technical analysts were utter shit. I mean, I could do better, and that's not even an exaggeration. I had been conditioned to work in each facet of the bureau, and I could do it very well, as a matter of fact.

We have this son of a bitch, I know we did. We just needed a bit of time, we could do it. I had a heavy feeling in my gut that he was somewhere in this pile of 16 faces. I was almost excited to see Stephenson's reaction, however I knew that that wasn't the only reason why I was feeling somewhat elated. I kind of wanted to see what the BAU thought of my work. Would they be impressed? Would they have already figured it out by now? Who am I kidding? It's the FBI, of course they've probably gotten better, more substantial leads - it was sort of pathetic even thinking that they'd be impressed with anything I bring to the table.

The cab pulled up to the sidewalk, and I handed him a 20 dollar bill, receiving 6 dollars 49 cents in return, and I smiled, wishing the cabbie a good day. I walked into the foyer, only to bump into Hotchner. A very flustered, troubled Hotchner.

I mumbled out, "Oh, hey, Sir, is there something the matter?"

He rubbed a heavy hand across his face, and he replied, "No.. This case is just frustrating, that's all. It's a Saturday, why are you clocking in?"

I chuckled a little, and I said, "I had a breakthrough at home on the case, and I wanted to let you guys know about it."

His eyes widened fractionally, and I found myself being ushered into the elevator at lightening speed with a Hotchner's hand laid heavily on the small of my back, leading me. He pulled out a cell phone, and made a call, of which was answered on the second ring, and he ordered, "We're having a meeting, 2 minutes, everyone in the boardroom, now. We've got a new lead."

That was it. That was all he said, and whoever was on the receiving end of that phone call listened intently. It was amazing the amount of power than he held in his hands, and I couldn't help but look at him in a different light. A more appreciative and superior light. He was a pretty amazing leader, I have to say. He treated his team with respect, however he maintained that level of authority in every word he spoke. He never asked for more than he believed his team could provide, and I honestly respected him more than I did Stephenson, of whom I had been working under for over a year.

It didn't take long before Hotchner had shuffled me into that same glass room, and I was being studied by 6 separate pair of eyes, one of which was looking at me through a computer screen. That must have been Penelope Garcia, the techie from heaven. There was Agents Jareau, Prentiss, Rossi, Morgan and Reid all either sitting or standing scattered around the room, however they were all facing the door - I.E the place were Hotchner and I were entering.

Morgan was the first to speak, and he asked, "Okay Hotch, what's this new lead you've got?"

Hotchner then proceeded to tap me twice on my shoulder, and lightly push me towards the group, indicating that I should start talking.

"O-Okay, well.. Erm, wow. While I was at home, I had a bit of a eureka moment. The original 697 names that Garcia found had eventually been whittled down to 147. That really helped me try and figure out where to begin, so I gotta thank you for that, Ma'am. The unsub we're looking for had no children, right? There was no special or significant markings or care taken to the children who were murdered, they just were shot, and he moved on to the women. Now the mother is where it got interesting. The last murder, the mother was raped, then mutilated and _then _she was killed. That's a whole lot of anger to hold for someone you've never met before, right? So I-I got to thinkin'. Which of the 147 people had broken up with their girlfriend or wife in the last, oh let's say, month and a half - which was where the murders first began. I separated the list into 3 groups; 25s to 30s, 30s to 35s and then the anomalous results. I went over it by hand with a fine toothed comb almost 10 times and, eventually I worked the list down to 16 names. I am so sure, _so sure, _that the person we're looking for is in here. I swear to God, if you work with this, you'll get him. I know I'm right."

I had almost wore a hole in my wrists because of the amount of times I had rubbed them during the speech, and I couldn't make eye contact with any of the members in the room for too long. I was a little anxious, and I was shaking from foot to foot, a nervous habit that I needed to work myself out of. The quiet of the room made my skin crawl, and a blush rose up my cheeks. Had I made a mistake in coming here? The feelings of self-assured confidence I had felt on my way here soon dissolved into nothing but butterflies deep in my stomach, and a burning urge to just run away and hide.

I look a half step backward, only to feel Hotchner's heavy hand lay on my shoulder once more before I was able to leave, and as I glanced up, he had a small smirk on his face, and he was looking down at me with - was that pride? Shakily, I smiled back, and unsteadily looked around the room, and the air inside me deflated. They were looking at me as if I were a shining beacon of awesome. Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but still. It stands. I was an awesome symbol of light, and everyone could kiss my ass.

Prentiss spoke up then, and she said, "So, how do you propose we go about finding our guy?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

I stared at Prentiss for a long time before my brain seemed to reconnect with my body, and I stumbled out a half-hearted, "Well.. Erm.. Personally, I-I'd be searching for men who have been able to travel between these jurisdictions, so American made, hefty cars and vans. Those aren't exactly inconspicuous, so I guess we're looking for a company car of some kind. Maybe electricity, or plumbing. "

They all nodded in recognition, and I smiled a little. They actually were listening to me. I knew I shouldn't be so surprised, but it's like, I'm finally being recognised. Praised for being professional at my job and I needed that kind of acknowledgment - it had been engrained in me since I was a child. My father had told me over and over again that I always needed to be better, and even though I tried to shake off such menial tendencies, some of them stuck with me through adulthood.

Reid brought me out of my reverie, and I found all of my focus was alerted directly to him, by saying, "Well, Hotch, how are we going to approach this? I mean, the simplest solution would be to separate us into pairs, and give us each a third of the names, and we could individually check them out?"

I bobbed my head in approval, and took that as my queue to leave, so I quietly said, "If you need anything, I'll be at my desk. Thanks."

Hotchner stood in between myself and the doorframe, and glowered down at me, as if _I _was the psycho in the room. Questioningly, I stared back up at him, and I squared my shoulders, ready for anything. His tone was playful when he enquired, "And where do you think you're going, Detective Lewis?"

The question seemed mocking and half-way patronising, but it was phrased almost as if he were questioning my sanity. It was like he truly didn't understand why I was going. I stammered over my words a little, and I responded, "I'm going back to my desk to finish up the paperwork; I'm more help behind a computer than I am at home, so I might as well."

My statement seemed to startle him, as well as Morgan who stared back at me as if he didn't even know who I was. Oh wait, he really didn't know who I was. What a stupid comparison to make.

Morgan chipped in quickly and said, "You're not goin' anywhere, baby girl. You need to be here. You figured this all out yourself, we need you."

I looked him dead in his eye and saw nothing but sincerity, and even though I knew I shouldn't, I believed him. I nodded shakily, and I sat down quickly in the nearest chair, and got my head down. I intended on reading through these folders and cross-checking them with whatever information the BAU had dredged up in the last few hours, however I found my chair being tipped backwards.

Not enough for me to fall to the floor, but it was enough for me to jolt upwards, and for a chuckle to resound around the room. At first I thought this whole thing was a joke, however it was only when I felt, for the third time, a hand on my shoulder, and a reassuring smile from Hotchner had me grinning in return. He half-whispered, "Come on, we need to get to work."

I affirmed, and retorted, "Okay, Agent Hotchner."

He froze a little, and sighed, "It's Hotch, not Hotchner."

Hesitantly, I gave him a bristled acquiesce, and whispered back, "Right, Hotch."

We grouped outside on the sidewalk and Hotchn- _Hotch _directed us into our teams. Agent Morgan was with Agent Prentiss, Dr Reid and Agent Rossi were together, and Hotch and I were a duo. Hotch told me to dictate which group went to which selection of homes, and in doing so, I took a bit of control of what I liked to think of as my pseudo investigation. I was quite happy working with the BAU, more so than I have ever been working with Stephenson and his lackeys.

Hotch and I took the black SUV, where as Morgan and Prentiss took the Chevrolet and Reid and Rossi were given a liaison to escort them around. I was the only person without a gun, and even though I knew I could defend myself if it ever came down to it, I'd prefer not to have to go against someone with a gun. Hotch and I got given the 25s to 30s, Morgan and Prentiss were given the 30s to 35s, and Reid and Rossi were given the rest of them. I knew that they could handle themselves well.

Before the car drove away, with me in the passenger seat, I caught the eye of one Spencer Reid, and I couldn't help but notice some tightness in his hazel orbs. What was wrong with him? He looked almost upset at something, but as soon as we made strong enough eye contact, he looked away, and stammered for the liaison to start the car. I don't understand, did I do something wrong?

I couldn't focus of Reid right now, I needed to remain fixated on the case. Right, murderer, catch him, now. I stared out of the front window, and smiled lightly when Hotch switched on the radio, light jazz music tinkling through the speakers and I tap my fingers against my upper thigh throughout the car ride.

My tone sounded tired and a little exasperated when I said, "Why am I really here, Hotch? Seriously, why did you bring me in on this? You've read my file, haven't you?"

His hand tightened on the steering wheel minutely, and his mouth hardened into a grim line. He replied with, "Yes, I've read into your background. You're a very smart girl, aren't you? You give Reid a good run for his money, let me tell you that. You started high school at 10, and university by 16. You studied psychology, sociology and mathematics at AP grade, then further PhDs in the same subjects. You have BAs in quantum mechanics, engineering forensic science and criminology," he gave me an appraising stare, then continued, "I know you're one of the youngest agents to ever join the police academy, and then personally drafted into the NYPD. You passed the entrance exams with flying colours. I know that you've been medicated anti-depressants ever since your injury in the field, and I know, from experience, that you are just waiting, no it's more than waiting, you're hoping that we'll let you in."

A half-smile made its way up my face, and I smartly responded with, "You missed out linguistics and I.T, but beyond that, yeah, you're right."

He laughed, and we fell back to the comfortable silence we had been in before. It was nice, being out in the field. My heart was beating faster than usual, the hands and the back of my neck felt clammy and moist and my senses were on hyper alert. It was strange, but I like it. I liked the feeling of the chase. It was invigorating.

"Here we are. Gregory Jones, 26. He's the first on our list - now when we go in there, I'll do most of the confrontational talking - you placate him. As hard as it is to do, make him feel like he's done nothing wrong. We'll do this for each house we visit but really, if he's in this file, then you'll know it when you meet him. You're the one who gave us this profile, you will be able to figure him out."

I nodded and pushed open the door. I adjusted my glasses as I stepped out of the SUV and pulled my hair over my left shoulder once more, and I followed Hotch onto the front porch of Greg Jones. This was going to be interesting.


	10. Chapter 10

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

The day had been long and trying, and up until now, completely worthless. Greg Jones was far too intelligent and certain in his own abilities, Martin Hathaway was too confident in himself to be considered our unsub, he had that God complex that some men only _wish _they could pull off. Luis Cruz could have been our guy until we found out that he was gay - bursting in on a two men half naked can do that to a person and we had already established that homosexual men do not fit the description. Hal Thompson had a genetic defect in his leg that disallowed harsh and sudden movements, which should have come up in the research that Garcia but didn't, and as soon as we stepped into Franklin Dupree's house, he came on to me. That was too assertive for our unsub.

The final house that we had on our list was Martin Travis, 29 year old male living in the suburban area of Staten Island. The journey was lengthy and the weather seemed to skyrocket, making the air inside the car seem humid and sticky. I regretted wearing my fur lined boots to work that day, however I knew it would only plummet once we got back into Manhattan. Hotch informed me that once we got this over and done with, we would get something to eat and then get back to the office, of which I was perfectly fine with. More so, in fact, as I was starved.

Hotch knocked on the door, and a 5 foot 10, pale, blonde hair, blue eyed man stepped outside. He saw Hotch, and in an instant his demeanour changed from the quiet, curious citizen to a frightened, nervous wreck. He recognised Hotch as an alpha male, what with his dark hair and sharp eyes, and then his gaze slid to me. Anger… No, pure unadulterated rage filled his gaze and I knew.

"It's him."

That set him off, and instantly his front door slammed shut, ricocheting a little and sliding back open again. Hotch drew for his weapon, and I did the same only to find my satchel missing and my gun vacant. Hotch indicated that I go around the back and I did so, while he went through the front, chasing the unsub. I kicked open the fence and hopped the gate, only to see the unsub trying to scale the wall. I grappled with the lapel of his coat, and dragged him down, both of us falling to the grassy, hard floor.

I could hear Hotch approaching, rapidly, and I knew all I had to do was keep the unsub occupied. I collected myself faster than he did, and was able to block the wayward swing he sent me with my forearm. I sent a hard knee to his solar plexus and heard him groan in pain. Using the opposite leg, I hopped backward and swung strongly with my left hand, connecting heavily with his nose bridge. I felt it break under my fist, and saw a rivulet of blood trickle past his lips and down his chin.

I used this moment of incapacitation to wrap my right forearm around his neck, and used the left as a brace to increase pressure on his trachea and pulled his head towards my body - fully gaining control over his ability to breath. The headlock didn't last long as I saw Hotch out of my peripherals, and he took charge of the unsub, throwing him onto his front and handcuffing his wrists together and pulling him onto his feet, although he swayed slightly.

"Michael Travis, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law.."

I phased out of the rest of Hotch reading Travis his Miranda rights and I found myself walking to the car without much thought being put behind it - I was working entirely on instinct, but I had no inclination as to why. I hadn't been badly injured, maybe just a bruise or so on my back where I fell on it a little to hard, and I wasn't suffering from shock - there was no reason why I would be. Why was I feeling so detached from my body? It was a euphoric feeling like no other. Where did it come from?

I was pulled out of my thought process by the rather distinctive slamming of the door on the drivers side, and the shaking of the car as Hotch slid in.

Hotch's hand fell on my thigh, in an attempt to make me focus, and he professed, "We got him, Charlotte. You did good."

I smiled, blindingly bright up at him, and I could feel the tears stinging my eyes, but I couldn't let them fall. I only ever wanted to be good at my job. The job I was born to do. Help and protect people. That's all I ever wanted to do. A thought flew through my mind, and I couldn't help but frown when I wailed, "That means we cant get any food, right?"

Hotch laughed good-naturedly, and nodded his head, and responded with, "Yeah, no food until we get back to the station. I've called the rest of my team, they know we've got him - and that we should be back within the hour. Let's hurry and get this scumbag clocked in and then we can chow down. I'm starving."

I glanced back at our suspect, and felt a twinge of something close to smugness creep into my heart. A smirk of satisfaction made its way to my face and I saw the aggression seep back into his eyes, however he was unable to do anything, so I wasn't afraid. Not so smooth are you now, asshole.


	11. Chapter 11

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

The arrival back at the NYPD office was a strange one to say the least, As soon as Hotch stepped out of the SUV, suspect in hand, the journalists went wild. They swarmed around him, like pack of hungry ants, and blocked his way to the entrance. He had to force his way through them, and when he came out on the other end, he was a little bit more than flustered and dishevelled. We walked into the foyer and before long, the unsub had been carted away by the active police officers on site. Obviously, he was screaming bloody murder while they were doing so, but I didn't even flinch. I was glad that he was finally getting what he deserved. Retribution.

Hotch and I walked into the elevator and stood in silence, until it pinged and alerted us to our destination. I stepped out first, with Hotch behind me, and could only watch as Stephenson congratulated Hotch with a strong clap on the back and a vivacious shake of his hand. He completely ignored that I was there, and even went so far as to shove in front of me and nudge me out of the way.

I sent a scathing glare aimed at the back of his head, and, although it was immature, I stuck my tongue out at him, and stomped over to my desk. I swirled around on my swivel chair a few times, careful to not knock my knees against the deep cherry wood desk, and groaned in pure boredom. Now that the case was over, eventually BAU would go back to Quantico and I would return to being ignored and overlooked.

I glanced over to the team in question, and noticed the proud smiles they were giving all around the room. I forced out a small grin, and I wriggled the mouse of my computer, switching it back on from its hibernation and I began typing up a report on the happenings of today.

I made sure to note that the suspect attempted to escape, and that he suffered substantial damage as a direct result of this, meaning the bruising and the bloody nose he endured. If I hadn't, this could have landed me in hot water and in some extreme cases, it could have meant my ass on the line and out of the job.

I was so engrossed in my work that I didn't realise that someone was standing over me, and I saw a dark shadow fall over my computer screen. I jumped out of my skin as I felt a light hand fall into my shoulder, and I span around only to come face to face with Dr Spencer Reid.

"Why are you sitting here on your own?"

The question was phrased with a child-like wonder, and for a moment I was swarmed with feelings of severe endearment. I opened my mouth to speak, but found I couldn't quite do so. I swallowed once, twice and then half-whispered, "Be-Because I'm supposed to be here. I'm doing my job."

I quickly span back around, however halted halfway as I felt him hold the head rest of the chair in a sturdy grip, and whirled me back around, and I found myself almost nose-to-nose with him. Being so near to him made small features about him implode in my vision, and they were all I could focus on.

His eyes weren't exactly hazel, nor were they fully green - they were smack bang in between them, shining with an unspoken intelligence. His eyelashes were a few shades darker than the deep chestnut brown hair atop his head, which was cut fairly short, the sides framing his face perfectly and the midsection appearing sophisticatedly quaffed.

His lips were a light pink, and I had to restrain myself from reaching upwards and kissing him, which was a foreign sensation in itself. His skin was pale, but not sullen - his cheeks flushed and dotted with light brown freckles. I can only imagine how far those freckles went down, and I found myself blushing at the thought.

"I don't understand why you're over here, hiding away, when you're the one who help catch this guy."

Each word was enunciated slowly and, dare I say it, sensually, and I felt my eyes flicker a few times. I felt like I was losing control of my body and I had to force myself to relax. My shoulders loosened up and I sank back into my comfy chair. I raised an eyebrow up at him almost challengingly and I said, "Yes, well I don't understand why you're over here, talking to me, when your team is over there, celebrating."

He smiled, retorting my cocksure stare, and replied, "You're here, that's good enough for me."

That shocked me, greatly in fact, and I couldn't help but widen my eyes at the sudden, abrupt confession. I mean, it wasn't a proclamation of undying love, but you can't blame me for reading between the lines at almost blinding speed. He was trying to give nothing away with his expressions - everything was neutral, even the playfulness in his eyes had become downplayed. But that in itself told me more than words could, in fact.

My voice was low and inquisitive when I asked, "You're trying to hide something, aren't you? Well, I'll figure it out eventually, don't worry about that, sweetheart."

Now it was his turn to look shocked, and I immediately felt a surge of pride and smugness seep into my system. How do you like them apples, Spencer Reid? Taste good? I hope so. As swiftly as I was able, I swooped past him and began walking towards the pseudo-kitchen, to make myself a strong, steaming cup of regular coffee. Just thinking about it had me shivering in delight, I loved overtly sweet, warm coffee. What a perfect way to end the day.

I did the usual routine, flipping on the kettle, pouring in the coffee and sugar and afterwards, throwing in the boiled water over it. The heady scent of nutty coffee assaulting my senses was enough to revitalising my body and allowed me to focus back in on what I'm doing. I wasn't going to allow Dr Reid to throw off my game, I'm perfectly fine. I knew all I needed was a good cup of old Joe.

I hefted my petite frame up to sit on the edge of the sideboard, and held the warm mug in my hands, feeling the heat seep into my fingertips and watch as the smoke swirled and curled in the air. I watched as the office twisted and turned, merry laughter and heavy applause, and I couldn't help the niggling voice in the back of my mind, whispering in my ear that I am truly replaceable. I don't need to be here, everything would work better without me.

It was a sad, but completely valid truth, and I had already come to grips with that.


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

It was time for the BAU team to depart from NYPD and fly back to Virginia, and surprise, surprise, I was their acting liaison. Not that I was complaining of course, I was one half of the duo that escorted half of the team members to their private jet, departing from New York Airport in little over half an hour. The traffic stalling our journey on the way there was making it very difficult to keep to the schedule Stephenson had specifically set on me.

See, the thing is, I could drive. I mean, it's simple mathematics and engineering - both of which I'm particularly spectacular at - however I just chose not to purchase a vehicle of my own. It was nearly 16,000 dollars more expensive to own a car, in New York City, while holding a steady 9-5, than it was to order a monthly bus-and-train pass and pay it up front. I mean, if you count in the gas money, car pools, late nights and early mornings, plus detours, traffic and congestion - it truly was a nasty business to get involved with.

I tapped my thumb against the outside of the car window along with the rhythmic sounds of the music blaring from the radio right in front of me. For some reason, it was a little warmer than normal, and the air conditioning had been switched on, but only on a low wave as it wasn't that hot. Rossi was in the passenger seat, Hotch and Jennifer Jareau in the backseats, and having Detective Dunham drive Reid, Prentiss and Morgan in his car.

The radio station switched from a very calm, soothing melody into a Hispanic Latina-infused Shakira number, of which I knew all of the words. I tried to keep it to a low murmur as I sang along with the Spanish music. I knew I had caught the eye of Rossi, who was surveying me in the corner of his eye.

"You speak Spanish?"

I nodded, a little bashfully, and kept my eyes on the road. There was no way I was going to get into a collision whilst they were in the car with me due to carelessness on my behalf.

"What exactly is your ethnicity? You look Spanish, but I see something else in there."

I laughed, out loud at that, and cheerily replied, "Spanish? Che diavolo. Half Italian, half Greek. But yes, I can speak Spanish. It was something I just picked up as a kid."

A light flickered in his eyes at the mention of my being Italian, and I assumed he was Italian also.

"Ay, guardare il vostro, bambino bocca. So, your ma or pa is Italian?"

I chuckled at the first part, who's the kid here? I'm 23; I'll have you know, Senor Rossi. I replied fairly matter-of-factly, as I did with anything related to my parents, "My mom was Italian, my dad is Greek. Yourself?"

He nodded, and retorted, "100% Italian, I was born there, moved here was I was no older than 6. I miss it sometimes, you ever visited?"

I scoffed, jokingly, and playfully mocked, "Of course, I lived there for a few months when I was younger, but my dad wanted me back, so I was carted back to New Orleans."

I could see surprise flicked across Agent Jareau's face, and she joined in the conversation with, "You lived in New Orleans?"

I nodded in the mirror, and she continued, "My husband used to live there. You probably don't know him - Will LaMontagne?"

Scrunching my forehead in light concentration for a moment and when nothing came of it, I sighed out, "Nope, I don't know a LaMontagne, sorry Agent Jareau."

She waved a hand in front of herself, and vehemently said, "No, no, friend's call me JJ - you can too."

I smiled, and although a little awkwardly at first, I repeated and said, "Okay.. JJ."

I went back to driving, and the car remained rather quiet, bar the odd phone call or comment made, mostly by Rossi. It was a strange thing to notice, but the dynamic of the team was far closer than any other I had witnessed before this. They were like a family, which baffled me to the point of almost complete confusion.

"Wait, if you're Greek, on your father's side, why is your last name Lewis? It's not a very Greek surname."

I felt a frown mar my features, and a pregnant pause broke out in the car. I think Hotch was too afraid to break the painfully awkward silence just in case he made it worse by trying to defend me. I decided that I might as well give them the real answer, as I supposed it would be on my record anyway - and as proven earlier, Hotch had already read my files.

I took in a deep breath before carefully responded, "Lewis is my foster parents name, I took it on when I was a kid. My dad.. He wasn't the best of people. No, that would be putting it lightly wouldn't it, Hotch?," I hesitated for a second, "My father, he was a killer. More than that, actually. He used to kill for the fun of it. He's the reason I joined the police force. He's serving his 16 life sentences in prison. He's been out of my life ever since I was 14 and I've been alone ever since then. It's weird, because it went on for years; not a single person knew until he got sloppy. He got cocky, and thought he was getting away with it. 48 women and 23 men over a 20 year period. He had started before I had even been born; before he had met my mother. So, yeah, Lewis isn't my real name, but it's the only name I wish to be recognised for."

The silence in the car was deafening in my ears, and I felt my pulse speed up. Rossi opened his mouth, probably to spew some consoling nonsense about how much it wasn't my fault, and I didn't ask for this - I had heard it a thousand times before this, and I really didn't need to hear it from him. Thank God we pulled into the parking lot of the airport, and a sudden halt to the car brought everyone back from where ever they had just been inside their minds.

I stepped out of the car first, indicating that the rest should do the same, and went straight for the trunk of the car, pulling out their suitcases and packing it onto the large metal trolley that would make carrying the luggage far easier. I pushed the cart ahead of the group, watching out of my peripherals that Dunham was doing the same with the second half of the team's belongings, only with less care and calm. They were going to eventually fall on the floor and scuff, but it was his own fault; he's a sexist pig - he deserved a little humiliation.

We walked through the automatic doors onto the pale white, marble, glaringly bright floors, and I had to squint and adjust my glasses on my face. The last time I had been on a airplane, I was far too young to remember much about it, so I was curious as to see what a jet would look like.

I could only hope that I got close enough that I could maybe sneak in a photo or two. I'm sure they wouldn't mind, would they? Well, I suppose - what with it being FBI property and all. Oh well, at least I get to help them out. Not many people get this opportunity.

I felt someone tap my shoulder, and I turned to see Hotch staring at me, in a very reproachful way.

My tone was jaded and distracted although I was paying him full attention when I whispered, "Do you think I'm going to break down or something, Hotch? Because, believe me, I won't. Over the years I've gotten through it, and I'm still standing. What can I say? I'm not that easily broken."

I added a small, cheerful wink at the end to lighten him up, and I think it worked, if the smile I got back said anything. It also helped that he ruffle my hair, mussing it up more that it already was, and out of habit rather than necessity, I tried to fix it back into place, although I knew it was hopeless.

I waited until every element of the BAU team gathered around, with a sweating and slightly out of breath Sinclair, to inform them of the plans that awaited them.

"Let's see, it says here that your flight is through Gate F and it takes off in 16 minutes, so we better hurry up. I'll take your luggage to the cock pit quickly, and it was a pleasure having you here in New York City, and if you ever need anything, we're waiting your call."

I went round the shake the hand of each member sturdily albeit a little clumsily, and went about pushing the trolley through the designated gateway and followed the corridors until it lead me to a silver, unmarked door with a monochrome handle. It was clear that this was the door that lead to the outside as the breeze was blowing through the cracks in the doorframe.

I slid the small card I had been given by Stephenson before we had left through a port, and the previous red light flickered green and a click resounded through the quiet corridor. I pulled open the door, and was attacked by a sudden rush of freezing wind.

My hair blew behind me, and I had to manually hold it in my hands to stop it from swirling uncontrollably around my face. I nudged the trolley with my abdomen and used my elbows to steer when I wasn't using my fingers, and eventually I got to the cockpit.

Two pilots - both around 6 foot and completely terrifying - were standing, waiting for me, and wordlessly, they picked up each suitcase and packed them onto the plane. As they had completed their tasks, they nodded once in my direction, of which I took as a minor thanks, and I was sent on my way.

I traced my steps back to the main waiting area, only to find the BAU team gone. Obviously they'd have left - they had a plane to catch. It didn't stop the sinking sensation rush to my stomach, though, and the sudden feeling of abandonment and neglect run through my veins. All of a sudden, I felt rather like a small child, and I wanted nothing more than to leave this place and cry.

Who was I trying to kid? I actually thought that I shared something special and unique with them, but why would they? Why would anyone want to get to know me? I'm just a know-it-all, pretentious little girl, and I could do nothing but fuck things up - for everyone included. I scuffed my shoes on my way out of the airport by taking my aggression out of the floor by repeatedly kicking it, trying to force out the bad sentiments that were swarming inside my body.

It was only when a cloth covered hand came crashing over my mouth and nose that my mind and body truly began working in sync, and by then, it was far too late - chloroform.

**- 'Che Diavolo' is 'What the hell' in Italian**

**- 'Ay, guardare il vostro, bambino bocca' is 'Ay, watch your mouth, kid'**


	13. Chapter 13

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

**Stephenson POV (I don't like it either, but it must be done)**

These damned kids will be the death of me. I mean, how hard was it, really, to just drive 3 people to an airport and be back by 4 in the afternoon. It was Sunday, so the traffic would have been light, so I don't see how in God's name that Lewis girl wasn't back by now. Dunham returned an hour ago, and even though it wasn't protocol to return to head quarters without your partner, I could understand. She was an annoying, know-it-all pain in the ass, and honestly, I was glad for the quiet.

It gave me at least a moment's peace, from her God awful, shrilling voice, sounding off throughout my precinct.

Why did I even hire that woman?

Oh yeah, that's right. On paper, she was just as incredible as any other officer to graduate with full honours. She was smart too, maybe even one of the smartest people I had ever met, but nevertheless, still annoying.

I twirled the biro pen in my hand, hovering over the contract that had been delivered to me earlier this morning. Lewis' transfer papers. We would both have to sign, and for that to happen, she needed to get back here. Just because she got a taste of that damned BAU, doesn't mean she deserves to go there, in my eyes. But apparently, what I think doesn't matter, because she is, and I quote, 'an astounding, overqualified police officer, who has served their city with pride and professionalism'.

Yeah, my ass she has.

She does nothing but sit behind that computer, every single day she's here, day in, day out, doing nothing productive or helpful to my cases, and what? She gets a promotion? What kind of bullshit is that? I glanced at the clock, and, with a scowl set onto my features, I noted the time, finding that she was now an hour and a half late coming back from the airport. What the fuck was she doing? Shopping?

For God's sake, could she just hurry up and get back? My superiors have alerted me to a meeting they wanted to have with her, however they didn't give me a date - for all I knew, they could be here within the next few minutes. I swear, I don't know what they saw in her. She was nothing more than a standard police officer, plus, she's so _fucking_ irritating. Always going on and on about some other crap nobody here gave a shit about, and we just dealt with it because I knew from experience that she'd just come back, full force, not a moment later, ruining my, as well as everyone else's, day.

I took another brisk swig of my coffee, and briefly ran over Lewis' file - skipping over the inconsequential nonsense like school and arrest accounts, which I already knew were as pristine as freshly pressed linen, and straight to her track record. I still didn't know why they wanted to speak with her, and I wasn't about to be caught out because I chose not to read up on my homework.

Without glancing up, I hollered, "Dunham! Get in here! Now!"

My voice was loud enough to have been heard throughout the entire precinct, but I liked to scare the officers. Keep them on their toes. It made me chuckle to see the fear trickle into their expressions, and when I hear their voices shake in pure terror, it made a vindictive smile bristle onto my features. Oh, what a beautiful feeling.

"Y-Yes sir, is there something y-you need?"

Charles Dunham, a 30-something, spineless, father of three, stumbled into my office, mumbling and stuttering over his words. People like him feared me because of what I looked like; tall, bulky, broad and pure muscle. Thank heavens I was born the way I was - I couldn't imagine being one of those scrawny types. My glare was derisive and overflowed with irritation when I enquired, "Where did you say you left Lewis?"

He paused for a moment, and at my perturbed cough, spat out, "W-Well, she went to give the pilots the suitcases, then came back, I suppose. By that time I had already left. I didn't really see her after she went to the cockpit."

Curling my lip in what would appear to be an intimidating manner, I bellowed, "Okay, now leave!"

He scampered out so quickly, I felt myself chuckle, deeply, as my door closed behind him. I took another sip of my coffee, and picked up my phone, preparing to call her once more. The last two times, her phone rang a few times then went to voicemail, so it was still on, but she was just ignoring me. That I did not take lightly to. Thankfully, a third time is a charm, and she answered her phone.

"Lewis, where the hell are you?!"

"Who said this was Lewis?"

The voice was sinister, bitingly aggression, and very much male. Baffled at being spoken to in such a disrespectful way, I roared back, "Put her on the phone, young man!"

The mystery man chuckled, darkly, and replied, "I'm sorry, she's a little.. Incapacitated right now. I'll be sure to take a message, though."

I spluttered and stammered in anger, and snarled, once more, "Listen, you son of a bitch, put her on the phone, or I swear, I will find you, and lock you up so quickly, it'll make your head spin!"

He chuckled bitterly, and spat out, "What? Like you did her father? See, the only reason we're here now is because of that bastard. I'm going to hurt this girl. Oh, I'm going to hurt her so bad. I hope you find all the pieces - I wouldn't want this to go to waste, now would I?"

And he hung up. Her father? I didn't know anything about her family life, she never spoke about it.

Jesus Christ.

The force of what had just happened hit me like a freight train. This man had kidnapped her, and I might have just made it that much worse. My God, I need to call SSA Hotchner; he'll know what to do. His team specialises in hostel kidnappings - he'll find her, I'm sure of it. He had to find her.

As much as I might have disliked her, I wouldn't want her dead. Especially not the way he described. Cut into pieces? Nobody would wish that on anyone. The man sounded angry; oh he was so angry. As soon as the shock wore off, I immediately dialled the number of Aaron Hotchner, a number I, unfortunately, had gotten used to calling the last few days. How was I going to tell him that I lost a detective, all because I was negligent? I could lose my job. I could lose more than that, damn it.

"Yes, Captain Stevenson?"

Hotchner's clipped and professional tone sounded through the phone and I paused. I had to compose myself before I said or did something that I would regret later on. The thundering in my stomach over the prospect of losing my only source of income was going to send me insane.

"Y-Yes, sir. I need your help."

He replied, "If you don't mind my asking, sir, we were just in New York City - what could have happened in the last.. Two hours? We've only just stepped off the plane."

"Sir, I have just received a phone call that would suggest that one of my detectives has been kidnapped, and I need your help in finding her."

There was a deep set pause on Hotchner's end, and when he replied, his voice was as cold as ice, "Which detective are you speaking of?"

With a voice full of conviction, I responded, "Detective Charlotte Lewis."

**Hope I did a good job, guys!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because aint nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favourite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Everything was so dark and heavy weighing on my body and my mind, and I could barely make out the bleary shapes in front of me, let alone the muffed sounds. I think I was in a basement of some kind, the scent of damp water and sewage was saturating the air around me. It took me a second to work through the sludge of fatigue, and truly focus on where I am right now.

After a few calming breaths, I felt my vision tunnel and the mist began to clear up, and I could finally focus on what was around me - or lack thereof. I was located in the centre of a blackened basement, like I had guessed earlier on, sitting on a mildew stained, wooden chair. My feet were tied to the two front legs of the seat and my hands were handcuffed behind my body by itchy, thick ropes.

My head lolled side to side and I groaned out in pain - my neck was tight and my head was on fire. I tried to wriggle my hands, and felt friction blossom. I would have ugly, green bruises blooming over my ankles and wrists by the time I was done. I glanced around the room, trying to find something substantial that I would be able to use to free myself, but found the room completely barren and empty.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me? Is anyone there?"

My voice echoed in the dark room, and I felt the first trickle of fear enter my bloodstream. There was a short pause and then I heard the door behind my slam open, and the wooden staircase creak as someone walked down, ever so slowly.

"Well.. Well.. Well. Sleeping beauty's awake now, I was wondering how long I would have to wait for you to open those big eyes of yours. I know you're a little disorientated, but that'll pass soon enough - then we can get to the fun part."

His voice was familiar, too familiar in fact. I knew him, I know I did. It was right there, on the tip of my tongue, and it was beyond frustrating as I couldn't spit out his name. Where the hell do I know this man from? He circled me slowly and rather menacingly, once, twice, and on the third time, he stopped in front of me. It was too dark to see his features, but it was blatant that he was taller than I was.

He was at least 6 foot 4 in height, and squared, broad shoulders and was wearing a cap and a waterproof hoodie, zipped up to the hilt. He knelt down, so that he was leaning on one knee, and he was now at eyelevel with me, and I could see everything, and it hit me.

I was going to die.

It was Edward Adams - the parent of the last woman my father murdered back in 2002. Well, they found her body in ten years ago, nobody knows how long he kept her for. His daughter was only 24 years old - only a few months older than I am now, and my dad ended her life. She had been raped numerous times and experienced deep stab wounds around her face, neck and chest area - indicating a sudden and violent overkill. He left her in a park, near the house I lived in with my father in New Orleans before I got put into care. Edward Adams and his wife lived opposite us, and Juliana used to come down from Miami for Christmas and such holidays.

That was where my dad would see her. Year after year, my father would sit in the chair in the living room, pretending to watch the football game, when in fact he was watching their house. It made me sick to my stomach to think that it was going on right beneath my nose, and I didn't even know it. Not until the police came and knocked down my front door, screaming and hollering for my father - all while I was eating breakfast in the kitchen. I would never forget that day, as long as I lived.

His New Yorkan accent was obvious when he finally spoke, "So you recognise me then, Charlotte?"

I nodded, and shakily replied, "Edward Adams, I remember you."

He chuckled, bitterly, and said, "You were only 13 when his court case was being heard. I remember you sitting there, in a seat that was far too big for you, with such artificial confidence and strength that it made me laugh," he paused, and his face grew sombre and bitter, and he continued, "I hate you, you know that. Why should my Juliana be gone, and you're still here? In what world is that fair? You shouldn't be here - you should have died instead of her. Why didn't he kill you? Just because you're his daughter doesn't mean that you should have gotten off so lightly. Who did you lose? What did you lose? Your dad is in jail, and your mom.. Well she's God knows where, but you're still standing. She isn't. She's gone, forever. It's only fair that you join her. Make him feel what I felt for the last 10 years, and see if he doesn't think about ending his life every single day."

By the time he had finished, he had tears lining his eyes and his fists were clenched and shaking with bottled rage, and for a moment I believed he would hit me, but after he let out a shout of irritation, he unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off. He threw it in the corner of the room and it fell to the floor almost soundlessly. With a proud, arrogant smile on his face, he whispered, "See, we're going to play a little game, and when we're through, you're going to wish you were never born, believe me."

The worst thing about it was that I did believe him. I knew that he was going to hurt me, and I could only pray that I would get through this. I was trained in hand-to-hand combat and working under duress, in hostel situations, but I had needed to put this training into action, for the longest of times. It was going to take everything I had inside me to get through this. Then only thing was, I wasn't so sure I could.

**Okay, first off, thank you for the critiques I have gotten, as well as the appraisals, I appreciate and accept every single one of them. I enjoy writing for you guys just as much as, I hope, you like reading this story. Have a wonderful day, and I love you guys.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favourite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

**Hotch POV**

As soon as I ended the call with Stephenson, I called for the rest of my team, and we were back on the plane within the hour, only returning home for fresh clothes, and for me to tell Jack that I was going back out again. I swear, I needed to take some personal time with him and Beth, maybe a family day or something like that. They didn't know exactly why we were on our way back, and I was still trying to figure out how to explain it to them, without it coming off as a personal case.

Morgan drew me out of my inner musings by asking, "So, Hotch, why exactly are we headed back to Manhattan? I mean, did something go wrong with the suspect?"

I shook my head, and grimly responded, "Detective Lewis is missing."

That sparked some sort of outrage within the group, and I perfectly understood. There was something lost about that young girl, and I felt like, even though, ethically, I really shouldn't, I should be the one to help her. It was a strange fraternal feeling, booming within my chest. Whenever I looked down at her, it was strange, but I felt similar to how I would when I was with Jack.

I caught the tense and rigid posture of one Spencer Reid, and it made me raise an eyebrow. He did the usual attempt at deflection, and went back to reading whatever book he was in the middle of, but his grip was firm and uptight, almost bending the spine of the gaudy book in his hands in half. I had an inclination that there was something between the two of them, but I had no evidence, and I wasn't going to push Reid - ever since Prentiss returned, he's been a little touchy on any subject to do with 'feelings'.

The turbulence of the plane rocked us a little and Rossi tensed a little. Even though we've been using the same jet for over 4 years, he still gets testy about it. It was almost amusing, if I were being honest. I looked over at my team and I felt my heart swell with pride. We had come so far in the last 6 years and I couldn't help but smile, even given the dire situation.

Just thinking of the possibility that Lewis had been taken had my good mood vanishing, and a more serious, sombre mood to break out over my features. She might have just gone AWOL, and is spending some alone time, yet, I wasn't so sure about that. From spending so much time with her, I got the feeling that this wasn't something she would do of her own volition. I stated, in a serious and clipped tone, "I have been contacted by Captain Stephenson, and he has expressed a deep concern that Detective Lewis is being held against her will."

JJ was the first to respond, and she said, inquisitively, "Sir, how does he know? We've been gone, what? 2 hours, that's hardly enough time for someone to be considered missing."

I nodded, "I agree. I'm only even considering this as a legitimate case because Stephenson says he spoke to the alleged kidnapper."

That raised a few eyebrows, and Rossi stated, "Are we sure this isn't just some misunderstanding, Hotch?"

I nodded, once more, and said, "He sounded genuine on the phone. No odd inflections or other in his voice to indicate anything but sincerity."

He concurred in return, and went back to staring out of the nearest window. I noted idly that Reid had said nothing about the case, not even a random statistic about kidnappings. He sat there, almost in his own world, with a crease appeared in between his eyebrows. I decided to test out a theory, as I really had nothing else to do. I walked over to him, and noticed that he didn't even flinch. He was completely out of it.

I sat down opposite to him and I asked, "Reid.. Are you okay?"

He snapped out of his daydream of sorts, and quickly glanced around the room, and once his eyes landed on me, he almost sleepily replied, "Y-Yes, Hotch. Do you need anything?"

I shook my head saying no, and I enquired, "Is there something you want to talk about?"

He shook his head, more quickly than he should have if he wanted to be seen as being truthful, and he said, "Nope, nothing, nada, not at all."

I made a face of disbelief, and after a few moments of him avoiding my eye contact, I stood up and walked back over to my seat, nearest to the fridge. I quickly skimmed through the quick notes that I had sporadically taken while Stephenson had called me, and mentally face-palmed at the lack of information. This was going to be difficult to figure out, especially when the man who we're trying to work alongside with was a glory-hunting ass-wipe.

Not that I'd let anyone else know that. I just hoped that if she had been kidnapped, she stayed strong until we could get to her. Ever since I met her, there had been this instant connection. Her confidence shone through, even though she faced all that negativity every time she stepped into the headquarters.

It was obvious that her so-called team felt her an annoyance, although honestly, she was one of the only detectives I have ever seen to be able to grasp the concept of profiling in its purest form. They took her for granted, and I can guarantee that Stephenson isn't afraid for her life, but more for his job.

He was supposed to be their captain, and their team leader, he should know where every member of his team were, at any moment of the day. I knew that if there was even a sliver of a chance that any of mine were in danger, I would be all over it like white on rice - as Garcia would say.

It was people like Stephenson that angered me most. People in power taking advantage of their position, and enjoying every moment of it, until something goes wrong, and then it was suddenly someone else's problem. Idiot.

All I knew was that as soon as we found her, with the consent of Strauss and the rest of my team, I was pushing for a transfer. I wanted her on my team, and I'll be damned if I'd let Stephenson get in my way.

**I hope you liked this. Have a great day!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

I screeched out into the still air as another swipe of his blade cut across my breast bone, slicing shallowly into my skin, and once more as he pressed the cloth saturated with iodine and alcohol on top of the wound. A sick smile spread across his face as he took in my screams, and he, almost innocently, whispered, "Do you think this is what he did to her? Listened to her scream for her daddy? Well, we'll never find out will we?"

And he pressed once more. Over and over again, until I could barely feel it anymore. It was then that he'd make a fresh incision, down the length of my bicep, and pour alcohol, vodka if I'm not mistaken, into the gash. He'd been at this 'game' for at least two hours now, and I was starting to feel it take a toll on me. I felt my muscles ache in pain as I had been tensing my body every time he ever pointed the knife in my direction.

He had stripped me down to my underwear, however he had not raped me, which was something I was confused about. Don't misunderstand me, I was beyond content that he decided to omit that, but I didn't understand why. He wanted to recreate my father's torture on Juliana, correct? It was common knowledge that my dad repeatedly raped her, so why wasn't he paying full tribute to it? Maybe remorse? Possibly he just didn't have it in him to degrade me to such a level. This means that there was a way out of here. He had some kind of a conscience, he was drowning in a sea of grief, and felt this was the only way to avenge his daughter's death.

A small sob escaped my lips, but I steeled myself against the tears, and I shakily responded, "You really don't have to do this. Let me go.. Please."

His only response was the shove the blade directly through my bullet scar, twist lightly and hear me shriek in agony, while simultaneously watch as the blood overflowed and dripped down my collar bones and stained my skin red. When my mind stopped reeling, I sent a steely glare in his direction, and he only laughed it off. The room started to get warmer, and I could only imagine the heating was wired down here too. This struck me as odd, as most people liked to keep their basement cool, as this was where they stored all their junk. Why heat it up? That didn't make any sense.

Now that he had brought in a few lamps and lights from upstairs to truly relish in watching my pain, I was able to see around the room clearly. It was made of stone, like most basements, and the floor was freezing against my bare feet. There were no windows, and the only door that I knew of was up the wooden stairs. Even if I got out of this chair, he locked the door whenever he left - even if it was only for a moment. The only way I was getting out of here is if either one of us killed the other, or if Stephenson sent someone to find me. And that wasn't going to happen any time soon - he didn't care about me enough to waste resources. Plus, I had to have only been gone for about 4 hours. I needed to be gone for another 20 before anyone would take it seriously.

"See, this is only the beginning, Charlotte. We're going to have so much fun, aren't we?"

In retrospect, this wasn't the smartest thing to do in that moment, but I didn't care. I spat directly into his face, and watched as the fury bubbled over, and it was then that he attacked me. It wasn't a single slap, or even a punch, it was a rain of assaults on any patch of skin he could find, and by the end of it, I knew he had blackened both of my eyes, and from the blood that filled my mouth, I noted that he had split my lip. There was a stinging sensation along my jaw line, and I figured that there was a particularly deep gash now located there. I'm fairly sure that he had torn some of my hair from my scalp, and it might have been bleeding for all I knew.

I bared my teeth and groaned slightly, but otherwise made no sound, as to not encourage, nor give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had hurt me. The rest of my body ached, but for a completely different reason now.

I felt a blood swell in whatever cuts were in my mouth, and I spat out onto the floor. I wasn't making the same mistake twice - I wasn't an idiot. Blood leaked out of the hairline fracture that I sustained, and into my eye, blurring my vision for a moment, however I blinked through it, and felt it continue its journey down my cheeks, mixed in with a few escaped tears. When the tears slid over the abrasions on my face, I hissed sharply, and felt my world spin on its side.

Scratch that black eye and a few bruises diagnosis, I was sure my entire face was swollen, like a bouncy castle or something, especially with how sore it felt. I think I might have fractured my jaw, too, but I couldn't be sure. I looked up at Edward, and noticed that he was, also, staring down at me, as if he had no idea what just happened.

"Someone's got a bit of a temper, haven't they?"

My tone was mocking, and sort of muffled as my jaw was inflamed. I was trying to get him off guard, and when I did, I was going to cause his a whole world of pain.

"Shut up! It's your fault! You spat at me, you filthy bitch! You deserved it!"

He was pacing and pulling at his hair, and sort of whispering to himself - I could only make out the odd 'not this way' and 'stupid, stupid'.

I couldn't stop the words as they dripped from my mouth as I screamed out at him, "Nobody deserves this! What is wrong with you?! You sick son of a bitch!"

I was pushing him, and I knew it - I needed him to get angry enough that he'd start making mistakes. An angry unsub is a sloppy one. He froze at my livid tone, and he swivelled around, the air flooded with tension and unresolved anger, and he came at me once more, just more aggressively and violent.

This was going to get ugly, and fast.


	17. Chapter 17

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

**Reid POV *Insert Hallelujah's***

"Detective Lewis is missing."

That was all I heard before my mind began running at almost double it's normal speed, which was pretty fucking fast if I do say so myself. I couldn't stop thinking about all the plausible possibilities of how this would end. There was the likelihood that the reason for the kidnapping was sexually based, as well as her playing a surrogate for the unsub - maybe a mother figure or a past lover, which made me feel rather ill. Her being an attractive young woman would play a massive part in the outcome of this case, and I hoped that she could take care of herself.

Instead of focusing on Hotch, which is what I should have probably been doing, I couldn't get the imagine of a pale, sullen corpse that looked eerily similar to Charlotte, out of my mind, and I felt myself grimace at the thought. I don't know why this bugged me so much, I couldn't help but feel my stomach churn in fear and a little bit of sickness. I just wanted to protect her - and keep her safe. I wanted her to be okay.. With me? I don't know, my body felt cacophonously alert whenever she was around, like there were tiny currents of electricity being sent through my system.

If I were being completely truthful with myself, I knew this feeling was highly irrational and unorthodox, but there was something strange bubbling in my chest every time I looked into her eyes. It was exceedingly infuriating as I didn't understand what was going on. It was going to send me insane. I ran a hand over my face in frustration, and started rubbing my fingers together, out of habit. A few moments of feeling this strange tugging in my gut, I pulled a hand through my hair, yanking lightly on the ends and let out a low groan.

I absolutely **loathed** not being able to understand something, and the worst thing about it was it involved my body. If it were a rush of oxytocin and vasopressin I would be able to understand what was going on; I would have been falling in love with her, but it's not that. It's like my body was drawn to her. I wanted to know that she was okay - I didn't care where or who with, I just wanted her _safe_.

"Reid.. Are you okay?"

I jumped out of my skin, and immediately whipped my head around to look at Hotch, who seemed to have teleported from his seat near the sink to sitting opposite me, with a very concerned expression on his face. I hated worrying Hotch, it always reminded me of my experience with Tobias, he always had that look on his face. Worry. Apprehension. It was always there whenever I was being quiet. Or at least quieter than usual.

"Y-Yes, Hotch. Do you need anything?"

I tried my hardest not to overcompensate by talking more than I needed to, which is something that, apparently, I do a lot when I'm nervous. He caught on quickly, and I glared harder at my hands, and he asked, "Is there something you want to talk about?"

I shook my head too quickly after being asked to be considered honest, and I knew I had messed up. It was like watching a car accident, there was nothing to stop me when I had gotten started, and I made it worse by opening my mouth and babbling, "Nope, nothing, nada, nothing at all."

He raised an eyebrow, and after that I couldn't look at him in his eye. He knew I was lying, but eventually he left me to my own devices. I went back to reading New Worlds: A Religious History of the Latin Civilisation. It was a fairly thick book, but it usually was about to distract me during these long flights, however the taut feeling in my stomach was halting me from calming down enough to truly relish in the literature, so I had to eventually close the book and push it into my bag.

I checked my watch and found that there was still a strong hour and a half left of the journey, and I decided to try and sleep it off. I stood and pulled out the portable, soft to the touch, dark blue blanker of sorts out of the bunker above my head and wrapped myself up in it. I crossed my ankles, and lay my head back, feeling the curls displace and rearrange themselves. The cushioned seat was far too comfortable for me to not fall asleep fairly quickly and I was beyond glad that the sheet of sleep was pulled over my mind and I could finally fall into the silent abyss that is my dreams, and silently prayed that the headache that was bubbling beneath my consciousness would dispel while I slept.

**Charlotte POV**

Ice cold water was thrown over my dropped head and I gasped out in a sudden rush of freezing liquid passed over my body and drew a chilling sensation through my system, and shivered as the chipped ice cubes ran down my back and stomach, settling in my lap and soaking into my underwear.

"Rise and shine, princess."

My teeth chattered and gnashed as I tried to bare my teeth at the bastard who had held me captive for God knows how long. I had given up on Stephenson helping me out, and had decided to get myself out of this situation - which is something I've always had to revert back to. I was the only person who wasn't going to let me down.

"H-H-Havent you d-done enough t-t-to me? Can't-t you just-t let-t me g-g-go?!"

My words were choppy and stuttered, and I even bit my own tongue in an apparent hastiness to get the words out. He just laughed in return, and disappeared upstairs, to retrieve whatever else he saw fit. I took these precious few seconds to do what I had been doing ever since he brought out the kitchen knife.

All it was is that I rocked backwards and forwards, quietly enough as to not alert him, but hard enough that the wood creaked lightly, and began to wane in sturdiness. I was only able to do this five times before the muscles in my leg gave out and he returned from his excursion of sorts, and held another kind of wood in his hands. A paddle of some kind.

"See this little beauty right here? It's a whipping willow, you know like they had back in the old days? Now, I want to play. Lift up your foot."

I shook my head in defiance, but instead of infuriating him like it used to, he just smiled, evilly, and grappled with my ankles. After getting my right leg under control, he traced my upper thigh, past my knee, and stopped mid way down my calf before sharply slapping the smoothly curved out piece of wood against my skin once, twice, three times, four times. He carried this on until he was tired, and then watched my skin react. It began by flushing red and slowly morphed into a yellow, then shone with a green-ish hue, and finally a deep purple.

He did this on both calves, thighs, knees, ankles, soles of my feet and forearms. I cried, screamed, thrashed and wailed but he only quit when his wrist cramped, and that was when he returned the demonic wooden paddle back to wherever it was stored, and left me in the blackened room, with only sound of my sobs to drown out the quiet.

Every time I tried to place my feet fully on the ground, a pulsating, shooting pain ran up my body and I cried out into the dark. If I listened closely enough, I could almost hear his insane laughter resound from his bedroom upstairs. I felt the bile rise in my throat from the level of pain I was experiencing, and was hard-pressed to stop it, and felt it fall from my mouth, splattering to the floor and emptying my stomach. The tears I had tried to hold back for however long fell from my eyes in rivulets and dripped into the cuts on my face, stinging sharply. I hiccupped a little and felt the burning return to my limbs from the exertion, and eventually, felt it fade away as I passed out once more.

**Aw, poor Charlotte. I know it's similar to what Spencer went through, but that's the point. I hope you liked this chapter. Thanks!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Hotch POV

We had been searching for Charlotte for a little over a day now, and I was starting to feel the heat. Stephenson was next to no help at all - he couldn't even tell me the exact time Sinclair arrived back at the airport, we had to wrench it out of the weedy young man's mouth my hand, and that was no easy task. He kept mumbling, and confusing the times - the whole ordeal was ridiculously irritating and a waste of time. Rossi and I split the team in half and we even brought Garcia in on the case. Our techy saved us hours of work with a few taps of her talented fingers and I am ever grateful that we have her around.

At first, we thought it could have been a blitz attack, and the unsub who allegedly kidnapped Charlotte had no affiliation with the brunette, however that soon became obsolete. The security cameras outside of the airport had clearly shown a man, dressed in nearly all black, watch, wait and attack Charlotte in particular. This lead us to the belief that the unsub and Detective Lewis knew each other, however we were stumped as to where they could have encountered.

Even her so called team mates had no clue who this mystery man could have been, and that infuriated me even more. She had to have been working here for at least a year, yet none of them took the time to even get to know her? She was very forthcoming and polite with us on the surface, but beneath it all, we could sense the chilling sadness that lurked in her eyes. These assholes that she worked with hadn't even offered to drive her home, just under the premise of keeping a fellow colleague safe. What a bunch of cu-

"Hotch, I think I got something."

Garcia's voice scooped me from my inner rant, and all attention was quickly directed to the small laptop screen that she was shown on.

"Okay, let's see.. Charlotte Lewis, 23 years old, born on January 16th 1989 in New Orleans. Her mother's name is Adalina Marie Lopez, previously Marinelli, and her father's name is.. Oh God," she paused to take a breath, and shakily continued, "Wow, this is different. Her father's name is Christos Angelis, 58 years old, aka Mister Massacre. Hotch, he killed people. Like.. A lot of people. 61 men and women over a 20 year period. Any one of families of the deceased could have taken her. This is a lot of names, Hotch. How do you want me to narrow it down?"

Rossi and I shared a heated glance, and instead of focussing on the disgusted and shocked faces of the rest of my team, I spoke directly to Penelope, "Exclude all the families where a parent is over 50, this unsub is in his mid thirties, early forties. And, before I forget, he used chloroform. See if you can track the annual sales of it within New York City, mainly Manhattan. We couldn't see the car that he pulled her into, so if you can find any footage that shows it, that would be great."

She hummed, and said, with conviction, "Right on it, Mr Boss Man."

The screen cut out, and Derek was the first to speak.

"Hotch.. Her father was a serial killer?"

I stared at him for a lengthy period of time and nodded in affirmation.

"Yes. Her father has been in Florence ADX Penitentiary for the last 10 years, and there is no way, in his lifetime, that he's leaving. But that's beyond the point. Now.. Let's get back to searching for her."

I began walking out of the room, only to have Reid's voice stop me when he enquired, "Hotch, where are you going then?"

I turned my head around, and replied, "Colorado, of course."

The ride to Florence was a quiet, tense and fairly short one, in the jet, of course. Rossi had opted to join me on this little excursion and I agreed wholeheartedly. I still didn't know how I was going to approach Angelis, and it would help in more ways that one if Rossi was here.

"So, I'm curious Hotch. Why do you give a damn if this girl gets back alive or not?"

His question was light in tone, but the implication was there, twisting through every word and for some reason, it made me sick to think that Rossi, one of my closest friends, would think that low of me.

My tone was steelier than I had imagined it would be and my glare could have frozen coffee.

"If you're implying that my conduct is anything less that professional then I would prefer it if you kept your opinions to yourself. Of course I care if a fellow law enforcement officer is endangered - it just so happens to be a young woman that was selected to be our liaison. Leaving her to the mercy of her kidnapper would be immoral and cruel. I hope that answers your questions, David."

His answering smirk showed that he was content with my response, and I relaxed into the chair. I felt lighter and more sure about what I was doing now, and I couldn't help but send him a mock-glare in return. He knew exactly what buttons he would have pressed by asking that bullshit question.

"You're welcome, Aaron."

My only reply was to throw my tablet case in his direction, and laughter as he failed to catch it in time. Not so smooth now, are you?

***Anyone catch that repetition of that last line between Hotch and Lewis? They're like twins, I swear. Also, ADX is an actual prison in Florence, Colorado. It's for the worst of the worst, and although capital murder and serial killers don't usually get put in that severe category, for my story, he is in there. Beware of the creepy old man.**

**Oh..I wonder how long I'll leave Charlotte with Edward.**

**Hmm, decisions, decisions.***


	19. Chapter 19

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favourite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Charlotte POV

I woke up to a loud clanging to my left. I snapped my neck in that direction, and found that everything was upside down. I panicked for just over a millisecond, until I realised that I was, in fact, lying on my stomach. I wasn't in the basement anymore - I was lying in a bed. A rather comfortable, soft to the touch bed. It was only when I tried to run my hands through my hair, I realised that my wrists were cuffed to the headboard in front of me.

I tried to look around the room, but my head could only turn a certain angle, but from what I could see, the bedroom was very clean and homely-looking. The wall were a soft beige, and there were two windows, on either side of the bed I was lying in, and the panes were painted a white. The paint had chipped over time, however it only added to the rustic aesthetic of the entire area.

There was a small bedside table covered with a pale yellow lace doyley and a few figurines facing what I would assume where the door was. The floor, from what I could see, was laminated, and out of my peripherals I could see the corner of a shag, deep brown carpet. I wouldn't have minded having this room in my own home, however the calm, subdued sensation that had been running through my body suddenly ran out, and I realised what was happening.

My wrists and feet had been bound together and then attached to the headboard on either side of the bed, and if I looked closely enough - as my glasses had been removed somewhere in between me getting kidnapped and being strapped into that death chair in the basement - I could see small pinpricks embedded in my skin.

He was.. Drugging me? Nope, no, I could deal with the beatings, I could handle the cold water and the lashings from the paddle, but as soon as drugs were involved, I would prefer to kill myself. There is no way, in **hell, **I was getting high on anything. Not after what happened with my dad. It wasn't just the alcohol or the killing he had been addicted to - in the beginning, it started out as solvent sniffing back in high school, which gradually turned into marijuana joints in the janitors closet after class. This quickly escalated into cocaine abuse and then, BOOM. He suddenly was blowing whole wads of cash on his next heroin fix.

If there was one reason why I was glad he was in jail, besides the halting in murders, it would be that he got clean. I hated him, don't get me wrong, and I loathed the things that he did and the lives he took, but at the end of the day, he is still my father. His genes are inside of me, and his DNA helped make me who I am today - so I have to thank him. If I didn't, then what kind of person would that make me? Maybe I'm just confused and naïve, but I just cannot help how I feel. I heard the door swing open behind me, and heavy, drawn out footsteps made their way along the hardwood flooring.

"Awake already, are we? Well, that makes things a lot easier," he traced a line down the length of my spine and chuckled as I pulled away in disgust, "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you.. In that way, anyway."

He traced his fingers along the tattoo written across my shoulder blades, slowly. The sensations in my stomach churning slightly and made me feel more than a little ill inside.

"This is a funny little tattoo you have here. 'Perdonare ma non dimenticare'. Forgive but do not forget, right?," He chuckled mirthlessly, "How fitting."

He pulled something out of his pocket, and out of my peripherals, I saw it flicker dangerously in the light. Another fucking knife. How spectacular. It was smaller than the one he had used in the basement, however the shape was far more daunting and dangerous. The blade was jagged and had a two-pronged tip.

My tone was glacial and biting when I spat out, "What is this? Another game?"

He laughed this time, almost as if what I said was a joke of some kind and replied, "No.. Not another game. The same game. Just more blood involved, of course. I'm glad that you're getting the hang of things here. We're going to have so much fun!"

He clapped his hands, manically, and span the knife in front of my eyes, watching with glee as goose bumps broke out on my skin. He took pleasure in my fear. The sick bastard. He was going to kill me, I didn't even need to hear what he had to say to figure that out. The manic, crazed look in his eyes told me more than words ever could.

His voice was miles away as he reminisced, "This was Juliana's room. My baby girl would have been 34 this year.. Oh how time flies, right? It seems only _right _that I end this here, don't you think? This is how this is going to work. I'm going to take this knife, and slit your throat, exactly how your father ended my Juliana's life."

I craned my neck just far enough for me to look into his eyes as I spat out, "Fuck you, you filthy son of a bitch."

He gnashed his teeth together and quick as a flash, he wound his fingers in my hair, fisting it tightly, and pulling, so that my head and neck were wrenched tautly in a painful and uncomfortable hold. He tucked the knife the skin of my neckline and pressed in, piercing the skin and blood welled up. It stung a little, but I didn't dwell on that for too long. I couldn't let him win like this.

He began dragging the blade across my collar, however a loud, authoritative knock on the door interrupted him. He cursed under his breath, and sat the knife down next to me. He went into a chest-of-drawers and pulled out a pair of socks and stuffed them into my mouth, acting as a gag of sorts.

He pulled at my hair once more, and snarled out viciously, "You make any noise, and I swear to God, they will be searching for your pieces until the end of time."

I nodded in agreement, however I knew for a fact that I was going to get out of here before he returned from downstairs. As soon as he closed the door behind him, I smiled maliciously even with the restraint inside my mouth.


	20. Chapter 20

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favourite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Hotch POV

A shrill buzzer blared out of 10 foot high speakers, attached to the somewhat bleak, ominous, and thoroughly frightening prison that stood before us. It told us that we were permitted entry to a prison only the damned were allowed into. "ADX" was a penitentiary that only housed the worst of the worst. The inmates here were the most dangerous, and were all male - so there was that underlying form of suppressed testosterone swarming sluggishly through every cell tower, teasing the senses. Rossi and I were only here to see one of these psychos, and I was already itching to get back home. The naturally coloured red and limestone brick walls contrasted sharply against each other, assaulting the eyes, as did the barbed wired gates, which had over twenty thousand volts of pure electricity running through it at any point of the day, terrifying the lowly inmates into following the orders given.

Every guard owned more than one semi automatic weapon on their person, and there were even rules exonerating the officers if an inmate lost his life. That was how intense some of the fights got, and that made me bristle with unease. This prison was dubious at best, and all I wanted to was to get this meeting, of sorts, over with. Rossi and I walked into a rectangular-shaped room, with an particularly thick pane of plastic-glass separating the two halves. There were 2 plastic chairs that were on one side of the sheet, of which we were told to sit in, and on the other side, there were 3 distinctly different men.

Two of them were guards. More or less identically dressed, heavily armed, unnaturally beefy in size and tall enough to intimidate and do their jobs. These men, who looked like they could physically tear another person limb from limb, were there to listen over the conversation that was about to take place. I truly didn't think that there were people that looked like that in the world, outside of steroid-addled wrestlers in television shows. The other male was the reason Rossi and I had travelled for the last 3 hours. I was surprised to see that he accepted our visitation, especially as he had no idea as to why we're here in the first place.

I took the seat opposite him first, and Rossi opted to stand behind me, acting every bit of the mobster we all knew he wanted to be. I laid down two folders in front of him and lined them up perfectly, purposefully drawing out the silence of the cell block room. There was an impatient, disgruntled groan on his side and he quickly quipped out, "I'm going to assume there is a reason that you're here. One that is beyond wasting my time, of course."

His accent was beyond thick, and almost indecipherable. My face remained stoic as I responded, "Yes, there is, as a matter of fact," and I flipped open the first manila folder, revealing Detective Lewis' profile and information beneath her picture, "This is your daughter, correct?"

He glanced down, and for a moment, his face contorted into one of guilt and regret before it smoothed out into an impassive expression and he enquired, "Yes, Charlotte, my daughter. What has she got to do with this?," he paused, momentarily, only to continue, "I havent seen her in years."

I nodded, dutifully, and answered, "Yes. Well, your daughter is missing. We're trying to find her."

He paused for a moment, and then all hell broke loose. Confusion, pain, aggression, anger, terror and finally rage settled in his features, and his fists clenched so hard, his knuckled bled white. His tone was scathing and bitingly aggressive when he spat out, "Which son of a bitch touched my little girl?!"

I felt a triumphant smirk work onto my face, and retorted, quickly, "That's what we are here to find out, Angelis."

He nodded his head in silent agreement, and replied, after reclining back into his seat, "Anything you need, you've got."

I guess this was going to be simpler than I thought.

I tapped the second folder and after flipping it open, I asked, "Take a look at this list, and tell us if any names stick out?"

He took one look at the list and, strangely enough, a vindictive, sadistic smile spread across his face, and he said, with a strong sense of confidence, "Edward Adams or Blake Tucker. They're the guys you're looking for."

I looked at him, questioningly, and enquired, "You're sure about that?"

He nodded, certain in himself, and said, "No doubt about it, Mister. It's one of them, I'm sure of it."

By the end of the discussion we had whittled down the list of possible unsubs from the previous 62 to a minute 10 names. Even though Angelis had given us the 2 names he thought were the most likely, we still needed to double check and cross-reference the list, as it could have been anyone of them. These were the most likely men who would have tried to avenge the deaths of their children - which was slightly unnerving considering, from what I would have thought would have been any sort of parent's point of view, if anyone were to hurt my child, I wouldn't know how to control myself. I don't even know if I'd even **want** to.

Some of them were too old or sick to do anything, others had either committed suicide, died of heartbreak or worked themselves bankrupt trying to find a way of avenging their lost ones' deaths. The majority of them settled with the compensation money they were given, and moved away from their home towns trying to shake away their old lives. Rossi and I were now sitting in the plane, on our way back to New York, and I could feel the initial shock of the get-together wearing off.

Rossi scoffed into the silence of the cabin, and asked, "I would have sworn he was close to begging us to find Lewis. I don't get it. How could an obvious psychopath feel so much remorse? They don't feel regret, that much is obvious. What was his deal?"

I shook my head, completely at a loss, "I have no clue why he was so eager to help, but he did, so let's move on and try and find this girl, before she ends up dead."

I requested a video feed between Garcia and I, and she readily accepted.

"Sir, how can I help you on this bright, shinin-"

Before she could get too side-tracked, I chipped in quickly, "Garcia, pull up the files on the 10 names I just sent you."

She caught on at once, and agreed, clicking away immediately, "On it, Sir."

Before she could switch the feed off, I threw in, "Get Reid, Morgan, Prentiss and JJ in doubles, and ask them to check out each name, like we normally do. Start with the most likely, which in my opinion would be either an Edward Adams or a Blake Tucker. They seemed to strike Christos in the wrong direction."

She understood, and swiftly sang out, "O-kay, I got it!"

And then promptly hung up. I glanced at Rossi and he was smiling to himself, probably thinking the same as I was. She was a crazy, gifted lady, who we were grateful we had around.

"Do you think we'll find her, Hotch?"

I looked him dead in his eyes, and replied, hastily, "I don't think. I know we'll find her, Rossi. We have to."


	21. Chapter 21

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favourite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Charlotte POV

It took me little under 40 seconds to nudge the knife from my side and into my mouth. I stretched my neck as far as I possibly could, to pass it into my right hand. I silently sent thanks for all those nights I spent in pure agony due to the heavy crunch-work I endured, as it made this entire endeavour so much easier. It was going to take some time, but I knew I would eventually be able to cut through the ropes he had confined me in, and, when I did, I gave a tired, yet partially victorious smile. I began working on my left hand, knowing the hardest part of this all was still to come.

I rubbed my wrist momentarily, then began work on my feet, which, due to my, thankfully, short 5 foot 2 stature, allowed for free movement on the surface of the bed, even within these restraints. There was a tension in my legs as the upper half of my body was now facing upwards, where as my legs and lower abdomen were still facing the bed.

The scent of friction between the knife and the wool permeated the air, and I saw the miniscule mites of fibre flittering in the air. I cut straight through the bindings, keeping an ear out for Edward's return. I tried to wiggle my toes, to check if they were broken or not and winced at the substantial surge of pain that sparked inside of me, however I trudged on as I couldn't let myself dwell on it. I was not allowing him to keep me here any longer - I would rather die than let that happen.

I kicked my legs over the side of the bed and cried out, as quietly as I could, in pain, and ended up biting down on the sock in my mouth, to damper the sound. It hurt like a mother fucker. After pulling out the pseudo-gag from my lips, I glanced down at the skin on my legs, and internally recoiled at the state they were in. The toes on my feet were swollen and the skin was broken in places.

The soles were bleeding; I could see the imprints of blood in even the lightest footprints I left on the laminated floor. My calves and knees were bruised a deep purple as the blood had risen to the surface, blackening my previously tanned skin. I prodded at the bruises and tensed at the acute tenderness, mentally noting to **never **do that again.

I was going to need to get that taken care of, and soon, but I needed to get out of here somehow. After a few moments of attempting and failing to stand on my own, I felt the slivers of depression, and the fear that settled deep in my stomach set the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck on end, twisting and turning my already empty stomach further. I wouldn't be able to walk anywhere; every time I tried to add even the slightest of pressure, I wanted nothing more than to scream out in pure anguish. I knew that there were people downstairs, and that they would eventually leave, meaning Edward would come back up and kill me.

Well, this is quite the predicament, wasn't it? I quietly pondered how I was actually going to get out of this.

I heard the opening of the front door and my panic increased tenfold, my heartbeat pummelling in my chest and epinephrine coursing through my veins. My heartbeat pounding in my ears and my vision tunnelled. I was working off basic instinct, and I launched my body hurtling towards the window to the right of the bed, knocking into the bedside table and knocking off the figurines, making a whole load of noise in the process.

My heart pounded louder and louder in my ears, and I couldn't stop myself from crying out into the quiet of the room. I needed to get out of here. I needed to escape. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see. It wasn't a want anymore, it was a _need_.

I knew that he had heard me because all was far too quiet downstairs, and my body released an unholy scream. I, shakily, kept myself upright by using what upper body strength I had to hold my body up by latching onto the window ledge, and what greeted my eyes was a God send.

Agent Morgan and Reid were retreating back to their vehicle, and I knew I needed to get their attention. Hastily, I used the chest of drawers nearest to me as a ledge to lean on and I heard Edward's quick footsteps booming up the staircase , taking two at a time to reach me.

Determination set in.

I wasn't going down without a fight, and I began smashing my palms and the sides of my fists against the window, with so much force, speed, precision and power that the skin split and began weeping with blood and a lengthy crack appeared in the glass, and screamed for them to help me, over and over again, begging for their attention. The window groaned under the assault, but did not smash completely.

The door was thrown open, a gush of stingingly cold breeze slapped against my bare back, and I refused to turn my head to witness a heavy breathing, fuming Edward was in the archway. I didn't slow down in my assault on the glass. He grabbed me from behind and laid a heavy hand across my mouth to shut me up. I bit deeply into his fleshy palm, and he hauled me out of the room and down the corridor with one hand in my hair, and the other flailing around, dripping with blood onto the furnished hallway carpet, into an empty, vacant room and threw me to the floor, watching in malice as I rolled across the cold, unforgiving floorboards.

He bellowed, "Shut up, you fucking bitch! They can't hear you. Nobody is coming to get you, do you understand me?!"

He reached behind him and pulled out a gun from his back pocket. A handgun, which in his clammy hands looked far too small, however I knew the real danger. He struck me in the face with the hand gun, pistol whipping me and breaking the skin in my hairline, watching in sadistic pleasure as crimson liquid dripped into my eyes. He pointed the weapon in my face and snarled, "On your knees. Quickly."

I glared up at him with nothing but malevolence and hatred in my gaze, although, quite fittingly, the blood tinged my vision red and refused to bend to his will. He grappled a fist in my hair, as he had done earlier, and heaved me upward, forcing me to my knees and embedded the gun nozzle directly between my eyes and grinned, a crazed look in his gaze, and cocked the gun while whispering, "Any last words?"

I stared at the gun, then up at him, and said, "I hope your daughter is looking down at you right now and is just as disgusted in who you've become as I'm sure your ex-wife is."

I smiled, spitefully at him, and there was explosive ferocity bled into his stare. It was like everything was running in slow motion, and, as another shot of adrenaline pulsated through my veins, I saw the ripple of the muscles in his chest as his index finger of his right hand pressed down on the trigger.

I barely was able to flinch before I felt more than saw the door slam open. The breeze brushed against my back, merciless and sharp against my skin once more and there were noises; ear-splittingly loud, raised voices swarming around me, and it all felt too close. Too intrusive. I wanted to get away from it all, but my body felt rooted to the spot I was in.

Edward released my hair, and my body collapsed, head colliding with the hardwood floor and my vision splitting in half. The headache I had been sporting not a moment ago tripled in strength, and I felt the reigns of consciousness slip away from my grasp, and suddenly the world faded to black, but not before I heard the tell-tale sound of a gun-shot split through the air.


	22. Chapter 22

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favourite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Reid POV

Garcia had just informed us that the person who Morgan and I needed to investigate was Edward Adams, and we needed to be on our way to him home as soon as possible. Morgan had snatched the keys up quickly, and we were on the road within minutes. The car ride was far too quiet and for once, I couldn't force myself to actually engage in conversation with Morgan who noticed, but decided, thankfully, to not comment on it.

We pulled into the fairly suburban cul-de-sac where Adams was housed, and as we pulled up onto the curb outside his home and even from the car, I could see that he had a basement area - a blue shuttered entrance on the left side of the house, and chalked it up in my mental list of 'reasons why he could be the unsub'. Morgan and I ambled over to the front door, and he did the honour of knocking, rather loudly, if I do say so myself.

A 40-something year old, well-built, dark haired man answered the door, a little sweaty around the neck and hairline and his pupils were blown wide, even though his eyes were almost obsidian themselves. His dress shirt was unbuttoned and he adorned a white vest underneath and a pair of dark coloured slacks and was barefoot. There was a protruding vein in the side of his head, and it pulsated in time with the clenching of his jaw.

It was becoming more and more likely that this guy had something to hide - not necessarily that he's Charlotte's kidnapper, but he's hiding something. I was determined to find out what he was keeping from us.

He coughed lightly, and asked, haughtily, "Excuse me, can I help either of you two?"

Morgan took the offence and he responded, automatically, "Mr Adams, right?" and at the other man's nod, he continued, "Well, we're here to ask you some questions in relation to the kidnapping of a Charlotte Lewis. Can we come in?"

Adams shook his head, quickly, and I rolled my eyes, inconspicuously, and pulled the warrant out of my jacket pocket, and folded it out, handed it to him and walked in without a backwards glance. I took in the surroundings, and wasn't really surprised with the level of normalcy that greeted me. There was one living room to the left of the front door and the dining room on the immediate right. Adams lead Morgan and I into the living room and we sat down in the singlet sofas.

Morgan began with the usual, "What was your relationship with Detective Lewis?"

Adams stiffened slightly, and rubbed the back of his neck, and awkwardly replied, "She was.. She was the kid of the man who ruined my life."

I cut in before Morgan could respond, and I pushed him, a little harder than necessary, "Could you explain what you mean?"

He glared at me, and I could feel the iciness in his gaze, and he seethed, "The son of bitch killed my daughter," and he clenched his fists before continuing, "So forgive me if I'm a _little_ touchy."

Morgan touched my forearm in warning, and I nodded, minutely, understanding that I was taking my frustrations over not being able to find Charlotte on this man. He might not be our unsub, there were a list a mile long of names and faces that we havent seen before, but all held equal animosity against Angelis. I shouldn't be so hard on him, he could be completely innocent.

Countless streams of information ran through my mind at breakneck speed, and I felt the headache setting in on my mind. I needed to relax somehow; the scratching urge for Dilaudid clawed at my psyche for a mere moment before I forced it down. Morgan took over once more, and I remained silent for the rest of the so called interview, too many thoughts were swarming around in my head. I knew there was something that we were missing - no there was something _I _hadmissed, and it was going to send me insane.

In the midst of my internal meltdown, I completely zoned out of the exchange between Morgan and Adams, so I was a bit more than surprised when I felt Morgan stand up and tap me on the shoulder, indicating that I should do the same. He shook Adams' hand, and I did the same, noting the slight jump in his pulse as our palms connected - almost as if he were relieved of something, and then, we were on our way out.

Morgan took his time in ripping me a new one, reminding me that he was only a potential suspect and all that jazz, and I did the smart thing in keeping quiet, instead of responding and making it worse on myself. I might be a genius but I was still young, and he never missed a chance in making me remember that. _Jack off._

He ruffled my hair a little and I scowled up at him, with scorn in my frown as he said, "Look, Kid, it's not your fault that Lewis is missing. We're all trying out hardest to find her, so just relax and do your job, m'kay, Pretty Boy?"

I nodded, faintly, and went about stepping into the car when I heard a heavy, muted sound coming from Adams' house. Well, I thought I heard something as when I turned to look at it, I didn't see anything immediately strange. However, it was only why I looked at the top window is when I saw a trail of blood, smudged in the window screen, in the shape of the side of someone's fist. Too large to be a child, but small enough to be considered feminine.

I leaned into the car and clapped Derek on the shoulder, and shouted, "Morgan, look!"

He glanced out of the car window on his side and followed my hands direction, and as the pieces clicked in his head, he was out of the car and sprinting his way up the pathway once more, with me a smidgen behind me. Morgan slammed on the front door with the palm of his hand and shouted, "Edward Adams, we're the FBI, open the door!"

Although we both knew he wouldn't, we had to alert him anyway, which I thought was completely redundant however it was the law, so we had to follow the rules. Morgan went about booting the door open, and running through the foyer and up the stairs. I checked out the kitchen and the living and dining rooms just to be sure that they were cleared before I joined him upstairs, and as he threw open the door of the nearest room, there was a sight that I only wished I would have been able to burn from my memory.

A battered, bloodied and bruised Charlotte was being held by her hair and forced to kneel on the floor with a handgun being pressed into her chest plate, directly above her heart. I tried to ignore her lack of clothing out of respect, however the incisions and cuts that had been made all over her back and, I assumed, her front were too obvious for me to ignore. I hadn't seen her face, yet I could only picture how grotesque an image it would play in reality.

Morgan had his weapon cocked and pointed directly at Adams' head, and I did the same, prepared to end this bastard sorry existence in an instant. Morgan roared in a firm and resolute voice, "Put the gun down, and slowly put it to the floor, Adams. It's over, there's no way out of this."

Adams flinched but in his eyes, I could see that he knew it to be true. There truly was no way out of this. To try and make Adams understand how dire his situation it, I added on, "You either leave here in handcuffs or a body bag, how do you want it?"

Morgan glanced at me, if only for a moment before turning his attention straight back at his target. Adams seemed to fault for a second and he released Charlotte, only for her body to go lax and collapse, colliding with the floor harshly, causing both Derek and I to flinch and divert attention slightly. I lowered my weapon, only an inch, and he seemed to take this as some kind of gauge and he attacked. Well.. I say attacked, I really mean he aimed his gun in my general direction and before he was even able to cock it, Derek shot him. Straight between his eyes, and killing him instantly. I didn't give his corpse much thought as I ran directly to Charlotte's side, and turned her over, wincing at the state her face and body were in.

I couldn't note how many incisions were made exactly as her body had been matted with dried blood, presumably her own, however they were in the hundreds. Some were small and shallow, whereas others were deep, long gashes that had been left to bleed for some time. There was a strong scent of vodka, and I saw the red, irritated skin around a few of the cuts. He had been pouring alcohol on her wounds after doing them - the son of a bitch!

Her eyes were closed, and I placed two fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse. There was a tense few moments of silence on my end, but I breathed a sigh of relief when I felt a slow, yet very real pulse beneath my fingertips. I pulled out my phone, and held down the number 3, automatically dialling Hotch's cell.

He answered on the second ring, and quickly asked, "You found her?"

I hastily replied, "Yes, we're at the Adam's residence. 436 Verona Way, she needs an ambulance.. She's in a bad way, Hotch, like, really bad. Send someone quickly."

He agreed and hung up the phone, and I seated it in my back pocket. Morgan went to pick her up into his arms, however I cut in and half-shouted, "No! She hit her head, she could be concussed, or worse. Leave her where she is until the ambulance comes. "

He nodded, and went about calling in the status of the recently deceased and asking for some kind of help removing his body from the premises. In mere moments, I could hear the sirens of the oncoming ambulances and I couldn't help but sigh in relief.

Without fully understanding why, I placed my forehead against hers, and whispered, "You're going to be okay, Charlotte, can you hear them? Stay here, stay with me. You'll be fine."


	23. Chapter 23

**Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favourite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X**

Reid POV

I spent the entirety of the ride back with Morgan twitching nervously in my seat, straining my neck to watch as the vehicle, holding the unconscious woman, who apparently I cared more deeply for than I had previously thought, drove away into the distance. I wrung my hands together, tingeing the skin of my fingers rosy pink from a pale white. My breathing was slightly quicker than usual and my forehead light with a sheen of perspiration. I was nervous, even Morgan could see it. Hell, an idiot could see that I was a little on edge - my stomach was rolling around, my hands shaking and a little clammy, my heart pounding at nearly double its usual rate, and my pupils dilated to nearly 4mm, blackening my hazel eyes.

Derek's Chicagoan twang brought me, if only slightly, out of my trance as he asked, "I've called Hotch, he'll be at the hospital by the time we get there."

I nodded, not really paying attention, let alone truly caring what he was saying, and I went back to searching for the ambulance once more. My lips chapped and chest aching with some unexplainable weight that I felt like someone was sitting on my chest. A few moments after they had carted Charlotte into the back of the vehicle, she had passed out completely, losing consciousness and slacking in the gurney, sending my pulse racing. I had first thought she had died or something, and all reasoning left me, entirely. It was in that moment that I think I may have lost my mind, a little. It was like I was working on instinct alone, and I found myself throwing myself into the passenger's seat of Derek's car.

I wondered, idly, if this was how normal people thought - a singular train of temperament and logic, without the multitude of other scenarios that were equally plausible as well as possible. It was a strange, yet not unwelcome sensation that I half-way relished in. The paramedics assigned to Lewis seemed to begin working on double time and it took mere moments before the doors were slammed closed and the car drove away.

Morgan and I pulled into the underground car park of the NY Presbyterian Hospital and began searching for vacant spots, which was proving to be a trying and very irritating task. Finally, we found on, in the corner of the lowest level, and we caught the elevator up onto the ground floor of the hospital. We hastily approached up towards the receptionist, and as soon as we arrived, I pulled out my badge and almost ordered, "Dr Reid, we're with the BAU, we're looking for the room of a Charlotte Lewis."

She clicked away at her keyboard for a moment, and replied, almost monotonously, "Room 246, second floor."

I nodded, and swiftly walked towards the nearest elevator. I tapped my foot, along to a quick-paced rhythmic tune I had overheard a few years ago to take my mind off of the gaping hole in my chest. I rubbed at the spot directly above my heart, in an attempt to quell the stinging sensation that resided there. The ding of the approaching elevator tore my mind from my figurative ailment and we stepped inside, noticing how rickety and unstable the contraption felt beneath our feet. I hated elevators. As a matter of fact, I disliked technology of any kind, but even someone as techno-phobic as I am realises and appreciates the positive electronics does for society. The doors whirred as they rolled opened and Morgan and I stepped out, glancing around and locating Hotch and Rossi sitting on a pair of light blue, plastic seats. Upon our approach, Rossi stood and filled us in on Lewis' condition.

He spoke quickly and professionally, if not a bit too impassively to be fully convincing, "She's in surgery right now, they say she'll have to be put under medically. I couldn't imagine the pain she's experienced, I really cant," he paused for a moment, and after a deep breath, he continued, "He was drugging her. There were high levels of ketamine and lorazepam found in her system."

I clenched my fists as a rush of pure rage passed through my spirit, and I wanted nothing more than to bring Adams back from the dead and tear his worthless throat out with my bare hands. The similarities in what I experienced and what she had been through made me feel more than a little bit protective of her, and I felt my blood pressure sky-rocket. My heart constricted tightly in my chest, and I knew that I was more than stressed out, and over a girl I had barely known for, what, a week? This infatuation was beyond juvenile and immature yet I didn't care. That was the end of it - I just _didn't _care, and that was beyond fine with me. I wanted her to be safe; she _needed_ to be safe.

I glanced at her closed room door and wondered how long it would take for her to return, and send us a shining smile with her big, grey eyes that I've grown fond of. Morgan had gone off to get a cup of coffee while I took the seat nearest to Hotch. I looked over at Rossi and asked, fearing his answer, "Do you think she'll make it?"

He glanced up at me, and replied, "Yeah, I think so. She'll be okay - she's too hard-assed to give up like this. She'll be fine, kid."

I smiled, a little dishevelled but glad for the distraction and also, for the optimism that Rossi provided, even though I could tell he was a little apprehensive himself. It was very much needed and appreciated in this sort of situation. I crossed my ankles and watched as my worn down Converse scuffed against the clean, laminated floors, leaving dirt tracks on the marble. I tried to make as little noise as possible, so no tapping, rocking or humming. That left me with more or less nothing to do, and I fought for a way to keep myself occupied during the time we waited.

Which turned out to be little over 4 hours.

By the time a doctor, a lovely, fair-faced 30-something woman by the name of Helen Schmitt, came around and informed us that Charlotte was out of surgery, and on her way down from the ICU to here. Another elevator pinged once more, and the door shuffled open to reveal a still, comatose and cadaver-looking Charlotte on a wide-spaced gurney of sorts attached to a mobile IV, and was wheeled down the lobby, towards us, and finally into the room, which when opened smelled like bleach and clean linen. I always hated the smell of hospitals - they reminded me too much of my mother.

There was a bandage wrapped rightly around her head, her hair still knotted and caked with her own blood and sweat. Both of her eyes were closed, yet the skin around her lids were deep purple and swollen, a few scratches scattered around her face, and her lip was inflamed and cut in a few places. The sheet she was lying under was tucked beneath her arms and her hands were, also, bound with bandages, from the knuckle down, and the little finger of her right hand was strapped to her ringer, as it had been broken somehow during the ordeal. My blood boiled with unresolved fury at the thought of someone hurting her, and I felt physically sick with rage.

She was wheeled into the room, and slid into the bed from the surgery gurney by a few members of staff and connected via tubes and wiring to all the correct machinery, a constant beeping told us of her steady, strong heartbeat. I took the seat nearest the window, the breeze was a welcomed friend, taking my mind off of the heat thrusting through my being, Morgan standing, stiffly, next to me, Hotch and Rossi on either side of her bed. JJ and Prentiss were emptying out their hotel rooms, us four having made sure we had our go-bags packed and waiting, securely, in the back of the SUV we had rented.

Doctor Schmitt said, courteously and professionally, "She suffered bruising to her frontal lobe from repeated, severe beatings. She had four broken ribs, one of which punctured her right lung, causing pulmonary haemorrhaging - or bleeding inside her lungs, so we had to patch her up. Her pinkie finger was broken and the skin on her palms and the side of her fist were split and had to be stitched up. She had over 130 separate incisions made all over her body, some shallow and other rather deep, probably leaving scarred tissue. She lost a lot of blood, and we had to give her a blood transfusion, which is going to take some time for her body to adjust to. This is where the medically induced coma comes in to play."

"The psychological trauma she suffered is extensive, more so than her physical, as a matter of fact. There are contusions on her frontal lobes is going to affect her ability to retrieve memories, rather than to make new ones. Her legs were the main problem, however. He bludgeoned her thighs, calves and feet with a blunt object, pulping the muscle and tissue inside and rendering it next to impossible for her to apply pressure, let alone actually walk without experiencing mind-numbing pain. She has to stay under for a few days, and we'll examine her condition and inform you as soon as there is any change in her circumstance - I suggest you all go home, it's going to be a long wait," she finished, with a sad dim shining in her eyes, and the unwelcome, unwanted thought that Charlotte may never wake up slithered into my head.

I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe. I barely blinked as I settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair, and the rest of the team nodded, solemnly, and after she left, Hotch addressed the rest of us by saying, "We should get back to Virginia. We can't stop working," and he glanced at me, worry written all over his face. He added, "Rossi.. Do you mind staying here and keeping us informed?"

Rossi nodded affirmatively, and Hotch glanced at Morgan and I and indicated that we should exit the room. I have to be honest, I was a little bit more than hard-pressed to leave her side, so to placate the nagging in the back of my mind, I rubbed her hand, softly as to not injure her any more, and, ignoring the curious stares from the others in the room, I leant in, disregarding her bruised exterior, and whispered lowly in her ear, "I.. I need you to wake up soon, please? I'll see you soon.." and hesitantly, I breathed, my heart pounding now as though I were declaring some kind of a secret, "Sweetheart."


	24. Chapter 24

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

Charlotte POV

Being unconscious is almost like having your head forcibly submerged under a heavy, thick layer of viscous liquid and being unable to work a way out of it. It filled my pours, my nose, eyes, ears and I couldn't breathe. A heavy weight pressed against my chest, and I wasn't able to even scream for help, because I couldn't necessarily feel my lips. No matter how hard I fought, or flailed or cried or shouted into the ether, nothing could be heard and I couldn't get away from the darkness. There was a consistently hefty pressure being pushed onto my chest, making it difficult for me to breath properly. It was more a metaphorical panic rather than a physical one, as I wasn't truly 'there' for it to be real, however that didn't stop it from being painful, in my consciousness. The gloom weighed down on my psyche and I tried to search for the energy to shove it away from me, but it was just so _hard._

Every time I tried to fight against it, I found myself under immense, sharp _slashing_ kind of pain and I knew I wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer. I wanted to wake up, and see the bright lights of the sun, and just take a breath of fresh air, but it was difficult - it was so challenging to just return to my body completely and open my eyes when it felt like I was floating under a film of darkness. Why am I even doing this? I havent got a specific reason to wake up but it's like there's something out there, tugging at my subconscious, asking me, no, pleading with me to come back.

Even though I felt a deep unwelcome uproar inside my mind, whenever I, figuratively, gave up, I felt an immense sense of calm and relaxation, and it was almost addicting. Every single time my body was unable to keep up the constant rebellion, I noted that I felt ten times more light than I had beforehand. I needed to wake up, I knew I did, but there was something strangely calm being here - when I wasn't in mentally crippling pain, of course. In relation to my anatomy, I felt an invasive cool rush flood through the 'veins' in the 'wrist' and the cold, unforgiving abyss was back and I couldn't even catch my breath fast enough before I was absorbed by the dark.

_***Approximately 60 hours later***_

**Rossi POV**

I had been here for almost 3 days, and I was _tired_. Lord, I was tired, but I needed to stay here for Lewis' sake. I had been staying in the hotel room I had been allocated back when we first came over to New York for the serial family-killings, and I had found it to be a fairly comfortable living arrangement. It was only a few blocks from the hospital, easily within walking or cab distance, and Hotch had told me to alert him if anything were to occur, good or bad, with Lewis' condition. I had kept my word thus far, and texted him whenever her doctor, Michelle Schmitt, came and kept me informed, which, honestly, was few and far between. It wasn't nearly enough to sate my curiosity, but still, it was better than nothing.

During the day, when I wasn't with her, watching over her in her room, I was somewhere in the hospital or at the food court across the street. I swear, I had eaten more vender food in the last few days than I had in my entire life, and I was sick to death of it. The sooner she woke up, the sooner we could get the hell out of dodge and get back to the BAU, where we belonged. It was strange, growing fond of a girl I had only known for such a short amount of time, but I had done it. All of us had, as a matter of fact. I suspect a one Dr Reid has grown a little more than fond, if you know what I'm saying, but I keep my opinions to myself, and let the kids figure it out amongst themselves.

I had been on my way back from running a small errand, just buying a fresh bouquet of flowers for the lovely young nurse at the front desk, who seemed to be more and more interested in me as the days went by, when I had gotten a call. A call I really hadn't been expecting anytime soon. It was one of the doctors from the hospital. More specifically, however, it was Doctor Sinclair - the woman Hotch had specifically assigned to take care of Charlotte while she was in her care. My stomach dropped and a sombre, creeping feeling spread along my gut, and I felt like I should really sit down before I answered this call, which is what I did. Apathetically, I slid my finger across the touch pad, and held the device up to my ear, and smirked as I replied, "Hello, Doctor Sinclair, how can I help you?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and I felt my pulse stutter in response, only to kick-start once more as she replied, "Charlotte's doing very well. In fact, she's coming along brilliantly. She's awake, and she's coherent enough for menial conversation. You can come in and ask her some questions, but do not, and I mean do not, put her under any kind of sudden duress, because we don't know how stable her condition is right now. Please, if you could hurry, she's fading in and out of consciousness, and I don't know how long she'll be lucid."

As soon as she told me Lewis was awake, I had jumped to my feet and was haul-assing it to the hospital, making it back in record time, and panting slightly from the force of the excursion. I walked past the receptionist with a suave, cool smirk on my face and she swooned, if only a bit, and went about clicking away on her keyboard, as per the request of her floor manager, who had been watching the exchange closely. I chuckled to myself as I made my way up in the elevator, and held my breath slightly as it dinged, indicating the second floor, and I went about finding the young detective's room. Instantly, I was hit with the sight of a bleary-eyed, disarrayed Charlotte, stretching lethargically in her hospital bed, her IVs jangling a little as she moved around. She flinched heavily and I immediately went to her side, checking over her visible stitches to see if any had torn or came loose. She glanced upward at me, shocked for a moment at my presence, before smiling, endearingly, and indicated at the paper cup of water, and I handed it to her, instantaneously.

Her voice was croaky and parched, and I handed her the glass of lukewarm water, and upon witnessing that her hands shook violently, I helped her along by manoeuvring her head and my hands so that she could drink peacefully. She smiled at me, and took a moment to collect her surroundings - and as she pieced her memories together, the grin began to fade away and morph into a scowl, a deep set, angry frown, and I could tell that she had remembered the encounter with Adams, a sore topic with us all at the BAU. She looked up at me, her sharp grey eyes twinkling noticeably in the cool, hospital room, and she asked, "He's gone for good right?"

I nodded, unable to speak for a moment, and she relaxed completely, her sickeningly green in hue, half-swollen bruised eyes shutting closed for a second and her mouth curving upwards in a smug, proud smirk, and whispered, "I made it."

-0-

"So what exactly are you thinking of doing, Rossi?," a fresh-faced, clean-clothed, showered Charlotte shuffled further up the lumpy hospital mattress. I turned to her, and asked, "What do you mean?"

She huffed, and rolled her eyes, however winced in pain at the action. The bruising to her face had gotten better, or worse, depending on your opinion. The skin was healing up, but she still couldn't smile, without her lip bleeding, although, honestly, there isn't any reason why she should be smiling right about now. While she had been unconscious, the bruising around her eyes had begun healing, and, even though they were obvious, you could see that her body was fighting back against the blemishes. Initially, all of the cuts on her body were bleeding, oozing incisions, some long, some thin, some shallow, and some fatal, however over the last week, they've cleared up some, and now, they only bleed when irritated somehow.

"I mean why are you still around? Don't you have a job back in Quantico?"

I nodded, biting into the burrito I had had to sneak into the squeaky clean hospital room, and replied, "Sure, but Hotch is worried about you, so you're stuck with me, bambina!"

She rolled her eyes, once more, apparently not learning from her past mistake, and winced, again, to which I frowned. I could see the anguish in her eyes, every single time she glanced into a reflective surface. She was disgusted with herself, and I was worried that she may react badly to the treatment that the hospital was hoping she would undergo. That bastard Captain, Stephenson, had been calling her non-stop these last few days, and I had to practically threaten him to actually get him to stop bothering her. He was a fucking idiot, if I ever saw one, and he made me sick.

"You okay, Rossi?," she asked, noticing my anger, and I shook it off, if only for the moment, and answered, "It's David, kiddo," to which, against her better judgement, called for the ghost of a smile to appear on her face, and honestly, it was a tiny step in the right direction, and that was good enough for me.


	25. Chapter 25

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

Charlotte POV

Being filled in on what had been happening to me over the last few days was a less than enjoyable experience. When Rossi informed that I had passed out, half naked in front of two of the _most _attractive men I had ever been around in my entire 23, almost 24 years of living, I was a little miffed. When he then told me I had been placed under the effects of a medically induced coma, so they would be able to flush out all of the unwanted drugs in my system, I was upset, to say the least. I didn't think it was fair that I couldn't even say 'goodbye' to the people that I had the most to thank for, however, it was only when he notified me that Adams had broken ribs, punctured a lung, caused bleeding inside of my brain - which might affect my mental ability to recall memories - and the pounding my legs had taken could leave me wheelchair bound for two months, I was absolutely livid.

No, beyond that. I wanted to defile Adams' grave and set his ashes alight. Sorry, that was a little intense, but still, he would have fucking deserved it.

They had to dose me up with a soft hit of morphine to at least get me to calm down enough so they could restrain me. They didn't need me tearing my stitches, externally or internally for that matter. Doctor Sinclair, who over the few days of my being conscious had become somewhat of an omen of all things bad, as every time she stepped into the room, my day just got worse and worse. Today seemed to be one of those days, apparently.

It was nearing the end December, four days after Christmas, and Sinclair had pushed open the door, holding one of the portable mobiles from the front desk with a sombre and unsettling expression on her face. She had, although unknowingly, interrupted a small joke being shared between Rossi and I, when she had tapped me on my healed shoulder and handed me the phone. I sent her a questioning stare, but accepted it none the less, and held it up to my ear and asked, "Hello?"

A unfamiliar, Hispanic, male voice sounded through the receiver, as he replied, "Senorita Lewis, si?"

I made a sound in the back of my throat, and enquired, "Who, might I ask, is speaking?"

He retorted, "Zachary Lopez, your half-brother."

The air in my lungs caught in my chest and pitched painfully, and I lost the ability to speak. My mouth ran dry, and morbid scenarios ran through my mind - all of which included my mother, pallid and sullen and dead behind the eyes. The phone had been taken out of my hands, but I didn't even notice, I was too busy staring a hole into my light blue bed sheets to really care about anything other than the possibility that my mother, although she was a pretty shitty one, could quite possibly be dead. There would be no other reason for this 'Zachary' to be calling me, other than that, right?

Rossi had taken over for the time being and was conversing with Zachary, however his voice was faded out and quiet under the current of the sudden pumping sound in my ears. I'm sure my pulse was racing and I was finding it hard to breathe properly, and before I knew it, I was hyperventilating. I was clutching the sheets in my fists, and tears leaked from my eyes and my chest convulsed and my body followed suit.

My legs were shaking without my permission and I screamed out in pain as I felt the throbbing run through my damaged nerves and bruised muscle tendons and seemed to spark something inside my body. This seemed enough to convince Sinclair that I needed to be medicated once more, and although I tried to fight away the coolness whooshing through my veins, eventually I fell victim to the darkness once more.

This is what a hangover feels like.

No worse, this is what a hangover feels like after you've been hit by a speeding train at rush hour in the middle of Manhattan. Yeah, sounds about right. My brain was on fire, some kind of burning acid must have been poured through my ears and was now causing some kind of leak inside my head, otherwise I would really have to call Sinclair and bitch and whine until I got some kind of painkiller, preferably ibuprofen as it fucking worked like a dream.

"Ah, you're awake then, Charlotte?"

I simply groaned in response and shield my face away from the blistering light shining right above my eyes. Wasn't it enough that I'm going through some kind of cranial bleeding, but I had to have laser-beams blasted into my mind. A distorted voice asked, "I'm going to need you to open your eyes, please."

Excuse me? Was this fucker completely out of their minds?! Open my eyes? Do they not realise that my eyes were physically welded fucking shut? I grumbled, irritated, "How about you stop shining that light in my face and then maybe we can talk."

I hadn't even realised I had been speaking until I heard a few gasps of shock, and a single chuckle of amusement. I knew that the person in question had to have been Doctor Schmitt; only she could sound so perfectly professional whilst doing something as natural as laughing.

She scribbled something down on a notepad of some kind, I assumed, and stated something along the lines of, "And she's back."

Sarcastic little shit. I didn't have time for this. My eyes stayed scrunched closed as I spat, annoyed, "What's funny?"

She replied, absentmindedly, "Nothing. Just your reactions. They're very interesting."

I huffed, and as the stinging behind my lids lessened, I began slowly cracking my eyes open, and realised that the room had been pitch black. She must have been shining one of those tiny torches in my face whilst I had been unconscious. Probably for some fucking experiment, the damned heathen. I sent her a scathing glare, and she simply brushed it off and went back scrawling in her notepad. I looked around the room, which I noted wasn't the one I had woken up in the last time, and found that something was out of place, and I asked, "Where's Rossi?"

She glanced up for a second, and looked a little shocked that I had asked such a question, meaning that she really hadn't noticed herself that Rossi wasn't here in the first place. She shrugged, and replied, nonchalantly, "Probably in the reception, flirting with the secretary - as usual."

Breathing out a light chuckle, I nodded my head, and went back to staring at the ceiling in silence, completely content with it staying that way for now. Apparently, she wasn't, though, and she began hounding me again. _Great. _

"I need you to try and sit up for me, take your time."

I did as I was asked, although I'll admit it was a little bit trying to do, all in all. I looked up at her and sarcastically asked, "So what's the verdict, Doc?"

She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me, and responded by shining her mini-torch in both of my eyes and watched as my pupils constricted, as they were supposed to. She hummed, and recited, as professional as ever, "There is a significant abnormality in the size of your pupils, this indicates that I was correct in thinking that you're suffering from slight subarachnoid haemorrhaging. It's caused by a rupture of a cerebral aneurysm in the area between your brain and the thin tissue inside your head that protects it. That's why you passed out previously. It's nothing to worry too greatly about - it looks fairly menial, you'll be fine, we will, however, have to operate, and quickly, just to be on the safe side. Now, into bed with you, I'll call your Agent Rossi - he was mighty upset that you were transferred here."

I tilted my head slightly, still struggling to absorb all of the jargon and medical mumbo jumbo that I had just been informed of, even my advanced memory finding it difficult to come to grips with - then I remembered that my brain basically had a mini-explosion, and my memory was going to be a bit shit for a while, and she added, "I will tell you this, however, your mother? She's fine. Your brother only called to ask how you were. Someone from the hospital had to contact her, and tell her of your condition - apparently she fainted or something. She's fine, now that she knows you're okay. Do you feel better now?"

I nodded, slowly, almost detachedly, and she closed the door behind her, shutting me in complete darkness, leaving me to nothing but my thoughts, not for the first time in the last few days.


	26. Chapter 26

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

**Charlotte POV**

I had spent the following month in that same hospital room, alone and bored out of my mind as Rossi had to eventually get back to the BAU in Virginia. He had a job to do, I knew that, and as much as it pained me to say goodbye, I was glad for the fact that he kept in touch through e-mails and the odd Skype chat, if only for a few minutes or so, as he was on the busy side.. Me? Not so much. I spent most of my days playing 'Guess-The-Reason' with every patient that flittered past my door - it was basically a game that my bored psyche had came up with, to keep me somewhat occupied, otherwise I would have went insane with boredom. Rossi had his murder-y stuff and me with my physiotherapy. Schmitt had declared me fit for physio 48 days into my stay at NYPH and I was over the moon with glee when she told me I would most likely be up and running in 4 weeks time. Okay, so she didn't say running, per se, but she might as well have.

Don't judge me.

Step one to the healing of my calves and thighs was my first visit to my physiotherapist, Dr Mortimer Bird. He was a balding man, in his late 50s for sure, with a reserved smile and a relaxed, aura, in a buttoned-down business shirt, a pair of smart slacks and shiny black shoes. I didn't know why I was but he gave me the distinct impression that I was being interviewed or something. He was reserved, and quiet, for majority of the 'meeting', only speaking when he was asking me questions, and scribbling a bunch of scrawl onto his notepad. I answered all the questions as honestly and as quickly as I was able, especially in my eager state. I mean, its not everyday that a girl gets to learn how to walk again, now is it?

The office that he had was on the floor above my hospital, specifically designated to the psychoanalysis of patients, and it took more time than I would have liked to actually get _up _there. It was fucking annoying, to say the least. I had to be wheeled up there, and it was embarrassing, but a necessary evil. I wouldn't be able to use my legs for a while, so I had to buck up and get used to it. Thankfully, the ankle and knee braces Dr Schmitt had strapped onto my legs had really helped me when it came to light stretching and tenses which is all I was really capable of doing on my own before this meeting. By the end of the hour session, Bird had charted up his over evaluation of me, and what it expected of me whilst I am here 'under his care'.

He handed me two slips of paper, one was a legal matter, pertaining to the possibility of me never regaining feeling in my legs and/or any injuries I may inflict on myself during the time within these four walls. I signed it quickly and handed it back to him, with scorn in my eyes. I really didn't like this man, although there was no real grounds for my distaste. The other paper he handed me was thicker, more card-like, and sturdier that normal paper.

It was a treatment plan, full of exercises and small stretched I could do every night before I slept and when I woke up to get my body used to moving around again. I had to be honest, whilst being in this wheelchair, my upper body strength had almost doubled, my arms were tense and more toned, but not beefy or muscular as they would have been if I were any bigger in size. Bird recommended a compilation of a heat and cooling treatment, as well as electrotherapy, to work on the electrical nerve stimulation that was lost in my legs as a result of the paddling.

If I were being honest, the temperature therapy wasn't at all the most dreadful or trying part of this treatment plan, it was the mild leg weights and stretches that I was required to do that got to me the most. Every night for about 3 week straight I cried myself to sleep because of how much agony I was going through, although I would never tell anyone of that. Dr Schmitt seemed to have a vague idea that I wasn't entirely content with the situation, but I would do nothing but grin and bear it. There was no way I was losing my only chance at being able to walk over something so stupid as aches and pains. As the weeks pressed on, the weights gradually got heavier and the work load I took on was increased, in relation to how much I had improved against the week before.

The electrotherapy was tunnelling things along much faster had he not chosen it alongside the others. It induced blood flow to and from my legs, allowing newly oxygenated blood into my limbs, improved the strength and motor control inside my thighs, allowed the repeated stretching of the soft tissue in my legs and repaired the broken tissue in my calves and thighs, and eventually the ugly, protruding black and purple veins and blood clots faded away, leaving behind yellow blotches of damaged tissue, and eventually those disappeared, my legs returning to their original size, colour and shape, if not a bit more toned.

Once I had been able to walk completely on my own, a little unsteadily at first, but becoming more and more confident with each time I attempted it, I had immediately taken up visiting the local swimming baths and taking a dive and going to and from the resident gym during my hour breaks from the hospital care - always returning with enough time for me to get to Bird's physio sessions. We had become close friends in the time I had been attending his classes, and I knew that by the end of the week, I was leaving the hospital a better, different woman. I mean, for Gods sake, I spent my 24th birthday with the nurses, doctors and patients here. They were each etched into my memory, representing another life I had lived and old friends I will leave behind.

The days leading up to my departure were sad ones - I had spoken to Stephenson a few times during my stay and he had expressed his 'sincerest apologies' over what had happened to me while I had been held captive by that psycho-nut Adams, and every time I would tell him to stick it where the sun stopped shining. He was trying to cover his ass, it was fucking annoying, and a complete falsehood. He was simply doing this out of curtsey; he was such an asshole. I was done being his scratching post, I was through being the middle man - I was finally becoming the woman I was meant to be, and at 24 years old, I was ready for it.

All it had taken was being held captive by a loon to make me aware of it. What a strange world we live it, aye?

**When I say I am no doctor, I mean it. If any info is wrong, or exaggerated, then I'm sorry, but it just fits in my story, so I'm keeping it that way. Plus, its all from Madam Google, and she is my queen.**

**Okay, so here's the timeline, for anyone who's confused:**

**December 16****th**** - The day the BAU came**

**December 20****th ****- The day Charlotte is kidnapped *le shock***

**December 23****rd**** - The day Charlotte is rescued**

**December 26****th**** - The day she wakes up**

**January 29****th**** - When she starts physiotherapy**

**February 20****th**** - Her birthday**

**February 28****th**** - She's released from the hospital completely.**

**Her life changes in such a small amount of time, don't you think? 26 chapters for just over two months, well hello.**


	27. Chapter 27

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

Charlotte POV

Walking into work the following Monday was like stepping into an alternate reality. Every person I walked by either stopped to ask how I was, or if I needed anything, and I politely declined each time. I didn't like the sudden attention - it felt entirely too fake.

Before the incident with Adams I had been nothing but a mere shadow, another face in the crowds of people, even though I did more work, pulled in far more over-time and ultimately had a better attitude when it came to my job that these people, and yet they were getting all of the recognition.

With a newly renewed passion and attitude, I sashayed up the stairs, flinching slightly as the psychosomatic twinges of pain from my accident running through my body - it wasn't quite nearly as unbearable as it had been in the beginning, as a matter of fact, it was almost miraculous how quickly I had recovered.

I still didn't know how I did it, but I did - and I would forever be in Mortimer and Helen's debt; I owed them my life.

As courteously as I could be in this moment, considering how much rage I was feeling, I knocked on his office door, and pushed it open when I heard the surprisingly subdued, "Come in," from the other side. I stepped in, and when I looked over to Stephenson, I was taken aback when I saw two other figures seated in front of his desk. I faltered a little, and I said, quietly, "I can come back some other time, if that's better, sir?"

He shook his head, and raised his hand, far more politely than he had ever beforehand, and said, "No, please, take a seat, Charlotte."

If alarm bells weren't ringing in my head before now, they were most definitely sounding off now at the mention of my first name. I was almost certain Stephenson had no clue I was a woman, let alone my actual name, and I froze for a instant, only to follow his orders and take the empty seat next to one of the suited and booted, young men I had walked in on his with.

Both were wearing tailor-made, clearly expensive, Italian leather shoes, coupled with form-fitting, black slacks and a button down shirt, thick, straight tie and a smart jacket pulled over their equally broad shoulders. If I didn't know any better, I would have assumed that they were with the Mafia, or something, they were that poised and stoic. Stephenson's voice rang out, and even I could hear the edge of uncertainty in it as he introduced, "This is Agent Ledger and Cade, they're with the FBI. Funnily enough, it is you they'd like to speak with - not me."

My eyes widened, fractionally and my mouth fell slack for a second, and I was sure I looked a complete fool. My gaze trailed to the two men, Agents Cade and Ledger, and I was shocked to see them looking directly in my eyes, unrelenting and piercing. One had formally styled, dark brown hair, paired with hazel eyes and tanned skin, whereas the other was his polar opposite. He had fair blonde hair, bright blue eyes and pale skin. They both were very serious-looking, and almost as if they were annoyed at something that I wasn't aware of, and the thought put me on edge.

They both stood, followed by a shaky Stephenson, and eventually I copied their actions, equally as confused as Stephenson probably felt. The blonde held out his hand for me to shake, and grasped mine in a firm, rigid grip, and said, formally, "Nice to meet you, Detective, I'm Agent Ryan Ledger," and he indicated to the silent, dark-haired male, and added, "This is Agent Jacob Cade, my partner."

Decorously, I nodded, and held out my hand for the other to shake, and wasn't at all shocked to find that his grip was just as unshakeable. Ledger began leaving the room, without even acknowledging Stephenson's existence, and Cade followed suit, only after staring intently at me, indicating that I was to tag along with them. Momentarily, I glanced at Stephenson, and saw he was slightly red in the face, and purple blotches were dotting around his neck, showing how anxious he had been throughout the meeting, and he was sweating bullets. He avoided eye contact with me, and I asked, quickly, "Do you know why they want to see me?"

He shook his head minutely, and I closed the door behind me. Ledger and Cade were standing by the entrance, staring at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head and I half-jogged to catch up with them, drawing worried glances from around the room, almost as if they thought I would collapse in on myself at any moment. As I reached them, I pushed open the door and smiled brightly, and relented, "Sorry, just had to sort something out with the boss. I have to ask, why do you want to speak to me, of all people?"

They shared a look between themselves, and Cade replied, already bored with the conversation, "We've been asked to hire you, Lewis."

My mind went blank and my mouth went dry, and I stared at the back of their heads, as I was a little behind them, and they were so much taller than I was. It wasn't even so much as height, but they were just generally bigger than I was - in size, stature and in confidence. They held themselves with a commanding, inner strength that I couldn't imagine possessing. It was infectious. Ledger tacked on, far more cheery and casual than before, "Yep, we've been asked to bring you to the BAU. Apparently you've made friends in high places. They want you to work for them," he winked, endearingly, "It's a pretty sweet deal, if I'm being honest with you."

The collected, professional Ledger from earlier seemed to melt away, and a carefree, relaxed man stood in front of me right now. It was quite a sight to see. He was grinning from ear to ear, and fished for the car keys to the jet black, sleek Chevrolet Camaro. I ran a finger across the trunk of the car, and sighed at how clean and lustrous the car both looked and felt. The soft purr of the engine beneath my fingers brought a melancholy smile to my face, and I slid into the passenger seat. Ledger glanced at me in the mirror, front the drivers side, and said, "You know about cars?"

With a chuckle, I nodded, languidly, and replied, "My step-dad was a mechanic. He taught me everything he knew."

He smiled, reading the wistfulness written on my face, and asked, "Mmm, my pops was a handyman, really talented at what he did. Always was fixing something; it was like his hands were never empty."

Nostalgically, I smiled, and watched as the scenery around us flashed by as the car sped through streets at a time. Finding the silence to be a little to daunting, I decided to do the brave thing and just get this fête over and done with. I sighed, and crossed my hands over my chest, and asked, showcasing a boldness that I didn't quite feel, "So you wanna tell me why I'm really going to the BAU?"

I raised an eyebrow, completely disbelieving and Ledger sent me a confused look. Cade took this moment to chip in his two cents, and stated, monotonously, as if I were boring him somehow, "You've been drafted as a replacement for one Agent Emily Prentiss. You'll be working under Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner. His Section Chief, Erin Strauss, requested you by name. Be glad you're leaving NYPD, they're idiots," and I saw a sly grin make its way up onto his face in the rear-view mirror.

His caramel complexion complimented his pearly white teeth, and I couldn't help but return the sentiment. I looked around, and we had arrived at my apartment complex, and the two agents were stepping out of the vehicle, onto the sidewalk, as if there was nothing wrong with the situation. From the outside looking in, it would look awfully humorous, having a young woman chaperoned into her own home by two, burly, muscular, suited men.

I scrambled out of the car, and wheezed out, "I.. Wait, don't I get a choice? Like, I mean, what if I don't want to be apart of the BAU? What if I'm perfectly happy with the life I have here? What happens then?"

There was a beat of silence, and the proper Ledger returned, and he gave me an almost acerbic glance, and said, simply, "But you're not happy here, so that scenario is obsolete."

And that was the moment where my decision was made. I was coming to Virginia, and I was bringing all of my southern charm and New Yorkan drama with me. It was going to be one Hell of a ride, that was for sure.


	28. Chapter 28

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

Charlotte POV

I was surprised at how quickly I was able to empty my apartment, and find a fresh, new one in Virginia - I suspected a lot of it had to do with my new bodyguards, who I came to know as Ryan Ledger and Jacob Cade, which in my opinion sounds like the name of a super-villain in a Disney movie, but that might just be my childish streak shining through.

They had first struck me as those kinds of men who were sticklers for rules and regulations, however, that couldn't have been further from the truth. Cade looked like a big, old meanie on the outside, but on the inside, he was a gooey, adorable guy, who had nothing but my best interest at heart. He looked after me, more than anyone else had in my life - he always made sure I was eating right, and that my injuries weren't giving me too much grief. It was the little things that made all of the difference to me.

Ledger on the other hand was a fucking ball of sunshine - he was never in a bad mood, it was like he couldn't be. It was a lovely thing to see. However, he was a strange commodity, as he had two distinct personas, if you could call them that - one for work, and one for play, there was no in between.

When he was working, you could never see him sweat; he had a handle on everything - his poker-face was second to none, and he was serious about his job, however when he was ready to play, all Hell broke loose, and nobody was safe. He was the oldest of three children - all girls apparently, so there was the obvious protectiveness that exuded from his every pore, and honestly, I revelled in it. I liked being looked after; it was a welcomed change - not that I would tell them that anyway.

They helped me pack everything, from my baby photos to my letter of recommendation and even my college and university certificates that were hanging on the walls in my bedroom.

They offered up more than a helping hand, and I wouldn't have been able to do any of this without them. They both took the trips with me, back and forth between Virginia and New York, ordering around the delivery men in ways that I couldn't have ever imagined, and for the most part, I almost felt like they were acting as my big brothers - it was an endearing sentiment.

We had finally finished painting the walls of my living room a dull teal, which always had reminded me of the ocean, and was the final room I had to finish in my new house - notice I no longer live in an apartment, but a full-fledged home, with a garden and everything.

There were two bedrooms, one of which I converted into a study room, where I left my instruments and my videogames, along with my high school, college and university essays, and other miscellaneous shit I really didn't need but couldn't bear to give away. It had been painted a cream, and the carpet that had been fitted prior to my moving in here was a deep brown, and always felt sort of scratchy against my feet, so I knew I needed to change it for something more comfortable.

My bedroom was exactly how it had been back in New York, except it was just bigger in size, which meant more paint, and more carpet, and more money being spent.

_Yay for moving._

Instead of the old Queen sized bed I had, I chose to go for a California King, deciding that the more space I took up, the less empty my house felt. The kitchen was, instead of entirely being chrome and metallic, was now made of an accumulations of different types of wood and gave off a bucolic, homely vibe. There was a long dining table, easily fitting 6 people, and made entirely of cherry wood, as was every other sideboard and cupboard in the kitchen, and shone seductively under the light that hung directly above it.

When I first moved it, it was a gaudy, ugly chandelier, and as soon as I laid eyes on it, I knew it had to go. The new one was a light frame made to look like silver vines, reaching out and blossoming into beautiful pearly white flowers - lilacs if I am not mistaken.

The living room was carpeted also, although Jacob held a strong grudge against it, saying that I would regret choosing it, although I think he was just upset that I didn't go with his idea of laminate flooring. I mean, it got cold in the winter. Just because there was a working fireplace directly to the right of the now perfectly placed, glass table, that I would use for my mugs of deliciousness aka coffee.

There was a wide-screen television, just like in New York, and a games centre beneath it, with a DVD and VHS combo, even though, honestly, _who really used VHS nowadays? _The bathroom back in NY was a pearly white and azure blue tiled combo, and I really did like it, they complimented each other well, however, I knew I needed a change.

The downstairs bathroom only held a pristine, white toilet, a sink and an oval mirror above it, while the walls had been painted a mushroom brown, which seemed to have some kind of rose undertone in it, whereas the upstairs bathroom was an amalgamation of pale pink, green, blue, purple and of course, white tiles, scattered, without any set pattern or order, and, immediately, I fell in love with it. Whoever lived here before hand did have good taste, in some respects.

The backyard had been the hardest part of the house to control, as the shrubbery seemed to have a mind of its own - I had to employ actual licensed gardeners to come down and tame the rows of foliage that had grown in the garden. They took almost a week to build the patio that I had wanted in place beneath by the back door.

They cut the grass down to a reasonable length, and the trees which had been left feral for years, had grown out to unimaginable lengths, but they had eventually controlled it, and I paid them handsomely for their services. It wasn't an outrageous price, as a matter of fact, I would have thought they would have charged more, but they hadn't.

I took my seat in the centre of the three seated sofa, which Ryan and Jacob on either side of me, with their overalls stained with different shades of brown, blue and blacks, and their hands red from all of the work they had but in. I looked up at both of them, and they smiled down at me, and I returned it, and sighed, "We did pretty good, didn't we, guys?"

They made sounds of agreement, and Ryan completely changed the subject with, "Wanna go get somethin' to eat?"

I nodded, and glanced at Jacob who relented, eventually. He hated fast food restaurants - he was a total health nut, the weirdo. Not that I wasn't about fitness, I mean, ever since Adams, I've been focussed on getting my body back to how it had been when I was 18. Damn, I was athletic back then. Always running about and not having to worry about what I was eating, because my metabolism would always burn shit off super fast.

Now, it's like, because I spent the last year either behind a desk or in hospital, I havent been able to get my blood pumping as often, and my body suffered. Don't get me wrong, I'm slim, yeah, for sure, but who wouldn't like to be a little more toned, or taut? Name one person who wouldn't like to better their body? See, not one. Everybody wants that deep inside. I'm not a bad person for seeking that kind of boost in my self-esteem.

I shake my head of these thoughts, noticing the dark turn they had taken, and instead I went about changing out of these dirty, 6 year old dungarees, that were far too tight and ratty to be considered even remotely acceptable, and into something more suitable for everyday-wear.

I stood up and rubbed my hands on my legs, trying to rub away the paint that marked my skin and said, "Be back in a bit, then we can leave out, okay, Ryan?"

He nodded, and picked up his car keys, probably to do the same as I am and get changed into something better. Jacob paused, and glanced at me, in my eyes, and seemed to stare directly into my soul. And then it was over. The intense staring and the meaningful stare, and he simply said, "We'll be in the spare room, Lottie."

I grimaced at the nickname, and he chuckled quietly to himself, knowing full well that I hated the name, and followed Ryan out of my house. I scrambled up the stairs, and into my bedroom, carefully opening up the newly constructed wardrobe, and skimming through my very clothes.

I wasn't going anywhere special, so I decided on a pair of Levi denim shorts and a black vest with the Jack Daniels logo plastered on the front, coupled with a pair of doily socks and maroon coloured dual-tongued Converse. I unclothed, and after I rolled on some deodorant, I dressed speedily, ready in just under 6 minutes. I padded across the hallway, into the bathroom, and brushed my teeth, while simultaneously combing through my locks with a brush I had left in the bathroom.

It was clear my hair wasn't co-operating today, so I plaited it into a French braid, and tied the end with a clear elastic hair-tie, and threw it off of one of my shoulders, whilst I eventually trapped stray hairs into place with nude coloured grips, and pinned them into my hair. After brushing on some mascara and a little bit of clear lip-gloss, and I was ready to go.

I sped down the stairs, and into the living room, only to find it empty, and the roaring of an engine sounding off outside. They were already in the car, waiting for me to come out, hollering about me being a 'typical woman'.

What sarcastic assholes.

**Second chapter, because I'm feeling generous ;) **


	29. Chapter 29

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

Charlotte POV

After they had dropped me off home after we had gone to get something to eat from the Taco Bell down the street, Cade had mentioned that I started working for the BAU on the following Monday, bearing in mind that it was Saturday night by the time I got home.

This hadn't truly settled in my mind until I had been lying in bed, later that night, and I had had time to truly think about what he had meant by 'work', and I realised that I didn't know what I was being employed to do at the headquarters. For all I knew, I could have been the new coffee girl, handing out fresh cups of Joe to the Agents during the day. I knew that that scenario was highly unlikely, but still, it stands.

Without a glance at the glaring alarm clock on my new bedside table, I called up the last number I had called, which I already knew would be Cade. The phone rang a few times, before the very tired, groggy and gravely voice of Jacob sounded through the speakers, and he said, simply, "You better have a damn good reason for wakin' me up so early, Charl, or I swear.."

I chuckled, nervously, suddenly apprehensive and regretting my decision to call him without thinking about the consequences. I rubbed the back of my neck lightly, and at the prompt of his half-way intimidating growl, I hastily replied, "Well- Ah.. Wow, I thought, you know, because you work with the FBI and all, you could, maybe, you kn-"

Jacob cut in, and snarled, "Get to the point, or I swear to God, I'm hangin' up," his Texan accent buzzing through his tone in his sudden surge of annoyance, as well as prolonged lethargy.

I smiled, despite myself, and carried on, "Well, I wanted to know what would be deemed appropriate to wear to one's first day of working with the FBI. Please, Jake?"

He sighed, heavily, and it sounded like he rolled over onto his side of something, and tiredly finished, "Something comfortable. You don't have to wear suits, that's more for the top dogs, you can literally wear anything. I mean, your new team, there's Garcia, who wears colours that clash so harshly, my eyes literally feel like bleeding, and nobody cares. Seriously, as long as it's clean, proper and fuckin' ironed, you should be fine."

I chuckled at his profanity, and made a mental note of everything he said, and finally assured, "Thanks, Jake, I was going crazy over here, I didn't know what I was gonna do."

I almost heard his smile through the receiver, and smarmily, he preached, "Isn't it past your bedtime, Charl? Shouldn't you be gettin' to sleep?"

I snorted, then glanced at the alarm clock, gasping when I read '00:49'. I sniggered out, "Shit, it really is getting late. I should get to sleep if I want to wake up early tomorrow and go for a run in the morning. I'll see you Monday, right, Jake?"

He gruffly exhaled, and responded, "Yeah, yeah, you will. And don't call me Jake, it's Agent Cade when everyone else is around, okay?"

I pouted but nevertheless, relented, and joked, "Sure sure. G'night, Agent."

He chortled, and countered, "Night, Agent," and hung up the phone. I seated the handset back into its cradle and quickly fell asleep, the nervousness in my stomach quelling greatly, and I was finally able to rest, and I fell asleep, dreaming of happier times.

Sunday swept through and left fairly swiftly, and before I knew it, I was tossing and turning in bed once more, but this time, the morning would bring something far more frightening. A new job. A new life. A new me, I guess. I needed to make a good impression on these guys, I wanted to come across as at least a bit professional, even though, well, they had seen me at my worst, and their still asking me to come and work for them. I mean, why wouldn't I feel a little intimidated? Who wouldn't? I mean, shit, it's the FBI, for God's sake.

I rolled on my one side, and flicked off the bedside lamp, curling into my side and wrapped my arms around my middle, feeling a sudden chill make its way down my spine, and I clenched my eyes shut, willing away the negative feelings.

I didn't want to think poorly of myself, I really didn't. It wasn't "productive" to my psychological recovery, apparently, according to Mortimer Bird, and I agreed completely. It wasn't going to do me any good if I was half-dead and down-right tired on my first day - how bad would that look on my record?

I started breathing periodically, deep and heavy, and felt my pulse slow down, thankfully. I was able to almost tip-toe to the edge of sleep, only to feel myself being drawn back at the last moment, as my hearing was on hyper alert, ever since the incident with Adams.

It had made me increasingly paranoid and, frankly, quite frightened of the outside world and just how badly it can harm you, emotionally and physically. The mere thought of being attacked again would have sent me into a hysterical fit of tears, back when I first attended Bird's sessions, but by the end, I felt stronger, more firm and sure in myself and my abilities. I was better than Adams. He was dead, and I was alive. I lived. I survived. I made it. And I should be proud.

And with that rather peaceful and content thought, I drifted off to sleep, my grip on my duvet relaxing and a faint smile making its way up onto my face.


	30. Chapter 30

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

Hotch POV

Walking into work that morning, I felt more worn and bleary than usual. Jack had been up all night, running through the corridors, literally bouncing off the walls, screaming about some new toy that he just **had **to have, and it had taken both Beth and I almost two hours to get him to calm down. We all woke up late, having slept through our alarms, and rushed to get ready for work or school, in Jack's case, which was hell in itself, because of the sleep, or lack thereof, we had gotten the previous night.

Beth took Jack to elementary this morning while I rushed to get to work, which was a silent blessing for me, and as I had gotten too excited in my efforts to dress myself, pack my pack and find my keys all at the same time, I spilt coffee all over my shirt, meaning that I had to spend twenty extra minutes, that I really didn't have, to get ready again. I had been stuck, halfway ready to scream and tear my hair out, in traffic, for almost an hour, and when I pulled into the employee parking lot, there were no spaces left, which had me hitting my steering wheel in frustration.

I was growling under my breath about how pointless this morning had been as I stomped into the elevator, skin white and strained from the amount of tension I had in my clenched fist and jaw, and hair in an uncombed, uncontrollable mess. I barrelled into my office, and all those who were in my path met an icy, frosty glare, and they knew not to disturb me, or they would face my unbridled rage.

I threw myself into my chair, and saw that there were three manila folders, one on top of the other, and I sighed heavily, but went about doing my job anyway. I flipped open the first, and was met with a new case, a serial killer, in a small town in Alaska.

Great, we're going somewhere as cold and dark as my current mood. There have been 5 victims, all women, between the ages 20 and 25, all brunettes and petite in size, and the community they were all from was equally as small. They were calling for us to help catch this guy, and Erin had, under some pressure from her superiors, agreed to send our team.

What with Emily gone, having left to go and work with Interpol in London, our team had suffered a loss. A very Prentiss-sized loss, and it was obvious that we were hurting. We've accepted the fact that she had gone, and we're happy for her as a unit, but that didn't mean we just stopped caring about her. I always expect her to push open my office door first thing in the morning, or throw out some sarcastic comment about Reid, but it never comes, because she is missing. She keeps in contact with us, when she can, and keeps us informed on her new life. She missed us greatly, but she was having an amazing time in London, and we were glad for it.

Now, with her gone, we had an opening in our squadron, and we needed to fill it and fast. If we didn't, we'd be lacking in some form or another. I still didn't know who was coming in, only Strauss was aware of it. I was supposed to find out this morning, but I was late, so I'd have to go and find Erin and wrench it from her, manually. I flipped the folder closed, and went on to the second one. It was a report that needed signing, completely routine and usual. It was, basically, an overview on the case we had just come back from, and all it needed was my signature. However, if I didn't read through this carefully, it would be a complete disaster, for everyone included. I scratched my signature along the dotted line at the end of each paper, and when I was done, I folded the folder closed, and moved on to the next.

When I turned the first tan page, I was shocked to see the face of Charlotte Lewis - whom I hadn't seen for at least 2 months. I had always wondered how she had been, often asking Rossi, who was the only member of our team who still held contact with the young New Yorker. Not because we didn't want to, but because it could be taken as weird if we just suddenly all began bothering her with e-mails and text messages. The last I had heard, she was doing well in physiotherapy, her recovery coming along fabulously, but that had to have been a month ago, at least.

As I read through her file, I was shocked to see the true extent of her injuries after her run in with Edward Adams. In the photographs that were attached, she had been wearing a simple, dotted, blue hospital gown, but every patch of skin on her hands, legs, feet and face was battered, bruised and a completely different colour to the her original NYPD profile picture. There had been detailed recounts of her recuperation through the time she spent at physio, and I was astounded with how much progress she had made, especially in the short amount of time she had made it in.

She was a strong one. I saw it the moment I looked into her eyes.

I wondered why I was being shown all of this information, and on the final page, my queries had been answered. A single dotted line was vacant for my signature. This was the form that would permit Lewis onto my team, as an honorary member of the BAU. This made me raise an eyebrow, questioningly.

Not that I was ungrateful, because Jesus, I was. She was a brilliant detective, and an amazing person, who did the very best she could with the cards that she was handed. She shouldn't have been on the FBIs watch list, let alone actually first place for the opening. I pulled out my phone, and called the person I needed to talk to the most right now.

Rossi.


	31. Chapter 31

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

Charlotte POV

My eyes flickered open, and the beeping of alarm clock sounded off by the side of my head, and I ran a hand through my hair, catching on some of the knotted ends, and winced a little at the sensation in my scalp. I rolled onto my side, and glanced at the clock by the side of my bed, and saw that it was quarter to six in the morning, and I frowned.

It looked far too dark to be ten to six, but then again, this was Virginia. The sun rose later on in the morning, apparently. I slid out of my bed, and threw on the silky robe that was hanging over the ottoman under the window, covered with a matte black visor. I pulled on one of the strings, and the blinds rose, revealing the early morning sky.

From my bedroom, I was able to see over my back garden, as well as the rows of houses behind my own. It would be a nice day today, I could already see the flakes of colour bleeding into the blanketing sky. I smiled wryly to myself, before padding out onto my landing, and then into my bathroom, and flicked on the shower, immediately noticing how the steam rose through the room and fogged up the window above the sink.

I ran the hot tap and pushed my toothbrush under the faucet, and brushed my teeth with a new, acute energy. Afterwards, I undressed and threw my hair up in a bun, making sure all of the stray hairs were tucked in safely. I didn't want to have to waste time drying my hair this morning. I scrubbed at my skin thoroughly, and when I was sure that every part of my body was squeaky clean, being especially careful with the still sensitive cuts that littered my chest and back, and I switched off the showerhead. I stepped out of the shower, and wrapped my body up with a feather-light, fluffy towel and threw my gown over my bare shoulders.

I picked up my night clothes, and threw them in the basket in the corner of my room, and walked back out onto the landing. I had already planned out what I was wearing for today, and it was clean, freshly ironed and fairly warm as it was inside the only cupboard on the corridor, which had my boiler inside; this was where I left all of the clean, freshly pressed towels when I wasn't using them. I grabbed the outfit out of the storeroom, and stepped into my bedroom, smiling at the warmth that engulfed me. Thank God for the automatic boilers, that switched on at a certain time every day, no matter the weather.

Absentmindedly, I glanced at the clock, and it was only twenty past six in the morning, and I knew I had more than enough time to get to work. I had planned to call a cab at quarter past seven, as Ledger had told me that it would take about twenty minutes to get to work in a car - and if I was going to take into consideration the possibility for traffic, I would get to the BAU HQ for about quarter to eight in the morning.

Officially, I didn't have to be in _until_ 8, but I usually got to work earlier than normal, anyway. If anything, if I were the only one there, I would pick up a coffee on the way there to waste time.

I hung the clothes on the knob on my wooden black closet, and I chuckled at the selection. It was a jet black, belted, tight skirt, with a short-sleeved, white button up shirt, cut and sown, so it all became something like a dress. It reached just before my knee, and I had a pair of shiny, black flats, and my pair of high-white Converse were in my tethered, low-hanging navy blue bag downstairs. After moisturising myself with coconut scented cream, I threw on some jet black, matching underwear and a pair of nude tights, and went about fixing up my bedroom. I spread my bed, and hung the robe back on the ottoman, where it had been beforehand.

I rolled on some deodorant and sprayed some floral-scented perfume on my wrists and my neck, and I looked over at the clock, and saw it had just turned half past six. I ran a comb through my hair, and waited until it was a silky mass of tresses became easy to control and morph. I tied it up, to the side, in a professional double-knot at the base of my skull, pinning it all up in the right places. I threw on the clothes, offhandedly, observing how striking my cleavage now looked in this shirt, and after smoothing out the skirt, I walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, and flipped on the kettle.

I made myself a cup of coffee, and drank it silently, noticing idly how bright the day had gotten in the last hour or so. I walked over to the patio doors, and swung them halfway open, but stayed inside the house. The sun had peeked its head over the horizon, and the sky had taken an odd deep purple, sunburnt orange colour and I felt strangely energised at the sight. I finished my cup, and emptied the mug out in the sink, and washed up the piece of crockery in silence.

I went back upstairs and brushed my teeth once more, making sure that my teeth were smooth and my gums were fresh and minty, and I ran a wet cloth over my face, and went about doing my make-up, that had been hidden in the medicine cabinet above the sink, along with a bunch of pills that Doctor Schmitt had advised me to take for the next 3 months.

The liquid eyeliner on the tops of my lids was thick and curved upwards at the corners, making my grey eyes look feline. I spread some tinted moisturiser onto my face with the pads of my fingers, and used concealer to work away the puffy bags under my eyes. I ran some bronzer over my cheekbones and the apples of my cheeks, making my skin glow in the sunlight. I ran mascara over my eyelashes, thickly, and followed that by applying bright red lipstick, and smiled at my reflection.

I picked up one of each pill, and after making my way to my bedroom and collecting the bottle of water on the side of the table, I winced as I swallowed each time, I cringed at the bland taste and the uncomfortable sensation of having something so small and hard going down my throat. I disconnected my phone from its charging port and I saw that the time was twelve past seven in the morning. I was a little behind schedule, but I would be alright. I kicked on the shoes I was going to wear and tucked the phone in the skirt pocket, and made my way downstairs into the foyer, leading to the front door.

I called the taxi number that Cade had given me on Saturday, and asked for a taxi to the BAU headquarters. They knew where it was, thankfully, and I checked over the contents of the bag that was seated comfortably in the single sofa in my living room. There was my Converse, my credit card, my leather, black FBI flip-down wallet, containing my name, signature, title and badge. Along with all of this was the laminate card that would allow me into the actual building, and my house keys. I pulled out a bottle of water that was in the fridge, and placed it in the bag, as well as a Tupperware container full of the chicken and prawn stir fry noodles I had made last night for dinner.

The beeping of the cab from outside told me that my ride was here, and the nerves suddenly kicked in. I took in a deep breath and prayed that my heart would slow down, because otherwise, I would have to be carted off to the nearest hospital due to going into cardiac arrest. Shakily, I stood, and after tossing on my obsidian blazer with silky, lined cuffs, and fastened up the one button in the middle of my stomach. I plastered on a smile, and instead of worrying about my problems, I decided to tackle them, head on. I was going to march right into that building and I was going to kick ass and be amazing.

Oh, who was I kidding? This was going to end so very badly, and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop it.

**Well, she's movin' on up, ain't she? Hope you enjoyed it. Have a great day!**


	32. Chapter 32

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

**3****rd**** Person's POV**

David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner were seated in the latter's office, intently discussing the folder that Hotch had received not ten minutes ago.

Rossi rubbed the back of his neck, as he was reading something on his tablet, and asked, "Hotch, I mean, isn't this a good thing? She could be really good for the team, for everyone."

Hotch only nodded in response, and Rossi sighed, and pushed further, "Why are you so against her coming in? I thought you liked her?"

Hotch rolled his eyes in annoyance, although it wasn't directed at the other man in the room, and replied, "I do like her, Rossi, believe me, I do. I just.. I just don't know if coming in, to work here, of all places, is a good thing, for her sake, not mine."

Rossi raised an eyebrow at this, and asked, "Why wouldn't it be a good thing for her?"

Hotch cautiously retorted, "She went into hospital in December, and we've only just come into March. What if she's not quite ready for it?"

Rossi pressed, already knowing the answer, but wanting the younger man the admit it, "For what, Hotch?"

Hotch huffed, and groaned, "For this! This job, this life. It's not easy, Rossi. It's harder than anything we've ever done. She'll have to give up a lot of her life, and for what?"

Rossi reclined in his seat, crossed his arms, and droned, simply, "We do so much good, Hotch. She'll be fine, trust me on this."

Hotch's entire body relaxed at this, and he smiled, and said, "Sure, Rossi, I just hope you believe what you're saying."

Rossi chuckled, then nodded, and both men went back to what they had been doing beforehand.

**Earlier that morning.**

Derek Morgan was waking up in a bed he couldn't recognise after a night he couldn't quite remember, lying next to a woman he knew he wouldn't like to meet again. She was dead to the world, and he knew it would be more than easy to get his shit together and leave without her noticing a single thing.

Which is exactly what he did.

He threw on his clothes from the night before, and glanced at the time on his phone and saw it was a little after half 1 in the morning. He groaned into the still air of the brightly decorated bedroom, and went about finding his car and house keys, and once he did, he opened up her apartment door and left, silent as always.

It took him longer than usual to find a way home, but he did, in the end, and as he was sitting in the back of a taxicab, which was en route to his upscale condo a few blocks from his workplace and decided that now that he was awake, he might as well stay that way.

"Thanks, how much do I owe you?"

The taxi driver had pulled up to his apartment complex and replied, "14 dollars and 60 cents, sir."

Morgan handed the man a twenty, and told him to keep the change, and went about trudging his body up the three flights of stairs, leading to his flat. Instead of dropping onto his bed which appeared almost painfully comfortable to his tired, blood-shot eyes, he went into his make-shift gym, and threw off his tight black tee, and went about going through his usual motions.

Morgan started doing his usual 100 push-ups, followed by an equal amount of sit ups, then he started on the weights, then his treadmill, running at a consistent speed, until he could barely feel his legs. When he stepped off the machine, he knew that he would sleep well until he was eventually woken up by his alarm, which was set for 7 in the morning.

By the time he had stripped and fell into his sheets, it was almost 4 in the morning, and Morgan was dog-tired. He knew he would pay for it later on, but he was glad he was at least able to work out before he drifted off into a land of warmth and satisfaction.

_-0-_

Spencer Reid found himself waking up in a cold sweat, his breathing laboured and his vision tunnelled. He had no idea what he had been dreaming about but he had never felt so strung up in his entire life. The only thing that he remembered was the scent of vanilla and coconut and the sensation of being balls deep inside of the tight, encasing warmth that was whoever the object of his fantasies were.

Reid had never felt such pleasure, not by his own hand, or any woman he had ever encountered. Contrary to popular belief, Spencer was quite the ladies man. His boyish looks, his awkwardness and his intelligence seemed to attract women like a beacon, enticing them, and they surrounded him in hoards. What he lacked in social skills, he made up with his ability to dredge out even the deepest of carnal desires and sexual gratification. He wasn't one to blow his own horn, but he was fairly good at what he did, if the compliments on his sexual ability was anything to go by.

The base of his erection was pulsating and effervescent with vitality, and he couldn't resist the urge to grasp himself, tightly, in his own palm. The head was deep purple and his shaft thick with negligence, his balls were tense and it only took a few quick, educated strokes to have himself cumming in his own lap, and groaning into the night air of his bedroom. He collapsed onto his pillow, and his pulse speeding like a freight train.

Once Reid had a hold of himself, he glanced down and whispered a quick "Shit," before using some tissues to clean himself and his sheets and eventually drifted off into a dreamless sleep, knowing full well that he'd have to be up, washed, dressed, and fully awake in a few hours.

**Hey. I hope you liked it, lovelies. Have a good day, and I love you!**

***Update***

**To the anonymous 'guest' who keeps reading my story, then flaming the chapters - Stop reading it. It's not difficult.**

**I'm deleting every comment you're making, so nobody is seeing them. Thank you for highlighting the grammatical errors in my stories, but insulting my characters and taking your insecurities out on me isn't necessary. To me, anonymous flamers are people who aren't confident enough in their own writing, and they take that embarrassment out on other people. My story works for me, and that's perfectly fine. I didn't write this to get any kind of response or feedback, but I am absolutely blown away with how wonderful everyone has been. Unfortunately, people like you, who can't stand to see others happy, ruin it.**

**So, thank you for your unnecessary, unwanted input, but I'll be fine without it. Have a wonderful day.**


	33. Chapter 33

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

Charlotte POV

I stepped out of the cab, paid the man his fare, and walked through the automatic, mechanical door, and was greeted with the warm flush of air that washed over my cool skin, and I tightened the bag that was hanging over my right shoulder, and I double checked that my hair was still in its tight, somewhat neat knot, and I continued about my way to the front desk.

"Hi, I'm Charlotte Lewis, I'm new here, and I need directions to the office of Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner, please?"

My wording was formal, but my tone was friendly enough, and the smile on my face was nothing less than brilliant. The young lady behind the counter glanced up t me, and upon seeing my smile, returned with her own, and replied, "May I see your pass, Ma'am? Both the laminate and the badge? I need you to sign these papers, too, before you are permitted upstairs.. Sorry, it's all protocol."

I nodded, understandingly, and I dug through my bag, and slid both passes to the woman, and took the forms from her hand, and used the small biro pen that was also handed to me, and after quickly skimming the pages, I signed across the dotted lines, and offered them back to her. She glanced over the paperwork, and apparently she was content with what she saw, as she tucked them away, probably to sort through at a later date. She pressed a black stamp on the blank page in the flip down badge.

As I was handed it back, I looked over at what had been imprinted on the page and saw that '**AUTHORISED MEMBER OF THE BEHAVIOR ANALYSIS UNIT UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION' **in small, black, professional font. I grinned at the wording, and I felt the tendrils of pride blossom and weave through my stomach, and I thanked her quietly.

She dictated, verbatim, "Go up the elevator, floor 6, that entire floor belongs to Hotch and his team. Well, your team, I guess, right? If anyone asks, just flash them your badge, and that should be enough. Good luck, Agent Lewis, I hope you have a good day."

I nodded, and I grinned, "Thanks, I will.. Sorry, what's your name?"

She smiled, daintily, and responded, "Anna Jarvis, head secretary of the BAU, and yourself?"

"Charlotte Lewis, new to the FBI, I used to work in New York, as a detective. I don't know why I'm here, I still don't know what's going on, but I'm glad I moved."

She nodded minutely, and replied, "Ah, well, I don't mean to seem rude or anything, but you've got to be upstairs soon, otherwise you'll be late. And, believe me, being late on your first day is not a great way to start. I've seen it happen to many a folk, and said agents no longer work here, if you catch my drift."

My eyes widened, and I grappled for my things, tucking them in my bag, whilst simultaneously, waving at Anna, and walking through the, thankfully empty, lobby towards the elevator, which would send me to my fate. I repeatedly pressed the green button which would beckon the metal contraption towards me. There was a pitched 'ding' and the door shuffled open and I stepped inside, hugging the bag closer to my side, and tapped my foot, rhythmically, in anticipation. I fought back the urge to chew on my nails as it was beyond gross, and I rubbed the back of neck, trying to take my mind off of the short ride up to, well, you know, hell on Earth.

As the resounding 'ding' alerted me that I had arrived on the sixth level, and I took in a deep, cleansing breath and released it, once I felt I was relaxed enough. I stepped outside, into the even warmer foyer. I tried to put on a very strong, unwavering front, but inside I felt like I were standing atop a towering cliff face, and I was ready to jump off. There were so many conflicting feelings battling inside my body, and I felt nauseous and more than a little dizzy, however I believed I hid that minute detail well.

I smiled, faintly, at those who passed me, and was glad that I received a few in return - which shocked me greatly, considering I was so used to the affronted annoyance that swarmed through everyone in New York. I was standing on the other side of the glass door, with the BAU insignia printed on, which was separating me, and the rest of my new 'team'. I smiled, airily, at that fact, and I pulled the door open, and was greeted with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, doughnuts and crisp paper and leather seats - all of it giving the office an increasingly proper feel.

I took a giant sweep of the room, and categorically filed away everything that I could see off into different sections. There were the men, at least 23, that I could see, excluding Rossi, Morgan, and Reid. Hotch was seated in his office, with the blinds open, and I could easily see him from where I was standing. There were 14 women, including JJ, but no Prentiss or Garcia, but she worked in a dark, shut off, cave-type office, or at least that's how Rossi described it to me over Skype a few weeks ago. Funny to think that I was in hospital a month ago, and now, here I was, staring a new job, with a new boss, and possibly new friends. All I had to do was just not fuck it up. Why did that feel like such a trial right now?

The structure of the office was simple; each quartet of desks were designed in the symbol of a swastika, making it easy to map out the entire room, with enough space for a long desk along the far wall, complete with coffee maker, doughnuts and other sugary delicacies and two water dispensers, one on either end of said table. From what I could see, there were, possibly, 40 different desks, all in the same foursome style, dotted around the room, ordered and systematic.

I noticed that the windows were high, and made completely of glass, the panes having been painted a cream, to match the walls, and there were lively, effervescent green plants scattered around the room, making it seem more relatable and contrasted with the weighty and serious persona the FBI had taken on as a whole. There were a row of three wooden, simple chairs along each wall, but for the wall with the table along it.

I took a seat in the nearest chair, and noted the cool temperature against my tight clad thighs, and I took in deep breath once more. The faces that passed me were all photographed in my mind's eye and stored for later use, and I smirked, internally, at how quickly my mind had been trained to do this. It happened naturally now, feeling almost as natural as breathing sometimes.

"Excuse me, may I help you? You look a little lost."

I glanced up and into the hazel eyes of a middle aged man I had never met before. He was clearly older than myself, probably standing closer the thirty-five mark,

I stumbled over my words a little, and I choked out, "Mmm, yes, well, wow, yeah, I need some help. I'm new. I wanted to talk to Agent Hotchner, but he looked busy, so I was going to wait here. Is that okay, or have I done something wrong already?"

Nervously, I chewed on the skin of the inside of my cheek, careful to not pierce it, and I tensed in reproach as he chuckled at my behaviour.

"There isn't any need to be so edgy. You can go up and see Hotch now, there should be no reason why you can't. Just knock, and it should be okay."

I nodded, and stood, a little too quickly, and gathered my bag a tiny bit closer to my body.

"Thank you for your help, Sir."

He stopped me, and shook his head in disapproval, and replied, "It's Greg Dew, not Sir, okay?"

I nodded once more, and repeated, "Greg Dew. Okay, thank you."

He stepped out of my way, and walked on, towards what I assumed was his desk, and sat down. His hair was brown, far darker than my own, and his skin was tan and healthy. His face was covered with a thin stubble, and his eyebrows were thick and in need of a good tweezing, but beyond that, he seemed friendly enough. I liked the atmosphere of this office a far cry more than I had the one in New York.

I made my way up the few steps leading to Hotch's office, and I rapped on the doors quickly, alerting him to my presence. I smoothed out my skirt, and simultaneously let out a breath I hadn't realised I had been holding, and I couldn't help but feel the jitters set in my bones. What if he didn't like me? What if he sent me back? Oh God, what if what I'm wearing wasn't appropriate? Shit, shit, double shit.

"Come in," was the clipped reply, and with a shaking hand, I pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

My voice was far steadier than I had been feeling inside as I said, my hand settling on my hips and a gentle smile gracing my lips, "Hello, Hotch. It's nice to see you again."


	34. Chapter 34

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

3rd Person

The entire team, minus SSA Hotchner, were in the drawing room, seated around the circular table, ready to undergo their usual early morning briefings on their new case. Apparently it was an important one. Garcia was the final member to take a seat, and when she was firmly tucked in, she meddled with her brightly coloured spectacles, and said, rather haughtily, "This was a journey made far too early in the morning for me to be cheery. Do not expect anything less than a grumpy Garcia."

Morgan rolled his eyes, and rubbed a comforting hand along her forearm, and stated, "Come on, baby girl, you know whatever the time, you still look fierce."

Garcia smiled, beside herself, and blew him a kiss, good-naturedly. Reid, JJ and Rossi were all left to jokingly grimace at the gesture, and they all stared at the door, waiting for their leader, and head honcho, Aaron Hotchner, to walk through the doors, and they weren't disappointed as not a moment later, he burst through the doors, already raring to go.

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I know it's early, but we have a case. JJ, you want to explain?"

JJ nodded dutifully, and went about going through the details of their recruitment.

"It's going to be a cold one, guys, as we've been called to Cordova, in Alaska," and at the rest of the team's groans of displeasure, she continued, "I know, wrap up warm. Anyway, there have been a total of five victims, all women."

She pressed her thumb down on the electronic clicker in her palm, and grotesque pictures of each victim splashed across the screen, and a gasp of surprise sounded out through the room, and it took everything inside of Garcia to not vomit in the nearest trashcan.

"As you can see, our unsub favours the violence of an overkill, rather than having any kind of pattern. The victims, Jemima Holloway, Sandra Baxley, Neeve Franks, Louisa Dennis and Rachel Smith were all natives of Cordova, two of them leaving young children behind. All of the victims were murdered in their own homes, between the 1 and 4 in the afternoon, and choked then hung inside of their bedrooms."

Garcia sent out a silent prayer for each of these women, and hoped that they would find this unsub sooner rather than later.

JJ continued, after pressing the clicker once more, "Whilst we are there, we have been designated rooms, and, like our last stay in Alaska, we have to double up, and because Prentiss has left, we have equal numbers."

Hotch cut in then, and added, "No.. We don't. As of this morning, we have a new member of our team."

Cries of outrage sounded out through the room, and Morgan was the first to jump up and say, "Hotch, they cant do that! Prentiss has been gone for, what? A week? And they already have someone gunning for her job? No, this is bullshit!"

Hotch let him rant on, knowing that he needed to get this out of his system, but worried slightly for the new member of their squadron was standing right outside the door, and could hear every word being spoken.

Rossi, even being the voice of sanity and reason, spoke up then and supplemented, "I know you're upset about this, but at least give them a chance."

Morgan waited for a few moments before sitting down, heavily, and glared at the door, ready to chew whomever stepped into the threshold. Reid stayed silent throughout the entire exchange, and chose to rather stare absentmindedly out of the far window, wondering how Emily was doing, rather than worrying about the new member, as he really didn't care, either way. Reid had kicked up his fuss already, and nothing had changed, and so he became used to being disappointed.

JJ asked, "Hotch, are you sure about this? We're a family, and they cant keep doing this to us."

Hotch nodded, appreciating the sentiment, but knowing full well that JJ, as well as the rest of the tem would love having Charlotte around.

"While I understand how you feel, JJ, please, everyone, welcome our newest member with the appropriate respect," and then shouted in the direction of the door, "You can come in now!"

The last person anyone had expected to walk in would have been one Charlotte Lewis, and their faces reflected that. Rossi had a small, wistful smile on his face, and he had tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, whereas JJ, Garcia and Morgan simply stared, wide eyed and confused, completely bewildered as to what was going on, unable to truly understand what was going on.

Reid, on the other hand, was working double time. His mind having already processed and accepted the fact that Lewis was present, now all that was left was his body to catch up. His stomach had nose-dived straight down to his toes, which curled in his messy Converse and his heart was racing a mile a minute. His Adam's apple bobbed, and almost automatically, his eyes fell back down to his iPad, furiously scanning the information that he had already read over six times.

An aspect take note of by both Rossi and Hotchner, who simply smirked, deeply, into their fists, and shared a cool, knowing look. Morgan hollered, unreservedly, and asked, pushing out of his seat, to stand up, "What are you doing here, Lewis?"

Charlotte smiled, pensively to herself at first, then the nerves settled in, and she couldn't help but chuckle, somewhat apprehensively, and replied, "I guess I'm the new girl, Morgan."

The man in question chuckled, and Reid clenched his fists angrily, beneath the table, at the obvious flirting. Or at least, in his eyes, was flirting, anyway. He ground his teeth, slightly, and his jaw became taut and clearly uncomfortably tight.

Charlotte turned her attentions to JJ, and pleaded, as firmly as she was able, "I understand that you don't want someone new parading in on your family, and believe me, I couldn't do that even if I tried. I just want to do my job, Agent Jareau."

JJ admonished, lightly, with an almost maternal smile on her face, "No, it's JJ. I already told you."

Charlotte gave her a small quirk of her lips, and after being directed to her designated seat, she sat down. Upon glancing upwards, she realised that she was sitting opposite Reid, and her throat closed up slightly.

Garcia asked, after an awkward moment of silence passed over the room, "Okay.. So Agent Lewis, are you caught up on the case?"

Charlotte nodded, honestly, and enquired, "Garcia, could you please call me Charlotte?"

Garcia nodded, enthusiastically, and said, unsteadily, "Awesome, okay, I will, Charlotte, wow, nice," and with a small, leading cough from Hotch, she continued, "Anyway, we're flying out at six tonight, so everyone should be packed and ready by half past five. Roll-call is at quarter to, and take off will be no later than five past six."

Everyone nodded in return, and went about collecting their belongings from the room. After the team filed out of the room, leaving only Hotch and Charlotte, alone.

The older man glanced down at his new protege, and held her eyes in an intense, serious stare that only he could pull off, and asked, curiously, "So.. Do you think you can do it?"

_Hope you like it, guys!_


	35. Chapter 35

**Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!**

My nerves were absolutely shot, I couldn't even keep my eyes focused, let alone actually concentrate on anything important. I smiled where I needed, and nodded at everyone that smiled at me as I made my way from Hotch's office, to my own. Hotch had previously directed me to my new cubicle, which was next to Agent Morgan's.

As soon as I sat down, he approached me and, after reclining coolly on my new, empty desk and rather cheerily, said, "What's up, baby girl?"

I grinned at him, noticing my nervousness almost immediately disappeared, and I replied, "Just getting used to the place.. It's a lot bigger than I'm used to," and I gave a slight noncommittal shrug.

He chuckled, and retorted, quickly, "Well, I hope you enjoy your time here, we're glad to have you," and held his hand out for me to shake.

I laughed, lightly, and, after returning the gesture, and I, teasingly, replied, "Sure, and that's what you guys were saying earlier, right?"

His expression became one of sheepishness, and he rubbed the base of his skull, and act of apprehension. He grinned, wolfishly, and amended, "Yeah.. Sorry about that. We're all just a little strung up about losing Em. It's nothin' to do with you."

I nodded, understandingly, and finished, "It's okay, I get it."

It sort of hurt a little that they didn't want me around, especially considering I didn't do anything to them - however, I could empathise with their situation. One of their own leaves, and someone new just pops up out of nowhere; it would be enough to send anyone mad, so that was why I didn't get too upset. Over the years, I've gotten used to being unwanted, it's an expression that I've gotten good at hiding.

He nudged my shoulder, and said, "Okay, so you're working with us, so come on, pull up a chair and I'll fill you in."

I smiled at the suggestion, and, after gathering my bag back onto my shoulder, I followed him to an empty room, enclosed with thick, transparent glass, with the BAU symbol printed on each surface. The carpet was a dark matt colour, and there was a light brown, pine coloured circular table, and a few chairs scattered around it. There were two vending machines; one full of drinks, both carbonated and still, and the other complete with different snacks.

Morgan asked, "So you know the back story right?"

I nodded, and replied, "Cordova, Alaska. 5 victims, all women."

He smiled in return, and set down a few manila folders. He clasped his hands together as he sat down, and I followed suit, sitting next to him, finding it easier to converse.

"We're all going to Alaska, staying until we catch this bastard. We have no conclusive suspects, but we do know that they are male, and between 20 and 35 years old. It's a very small interval, which will make our suspect pool easier to pick from."

He flipped open the folders, and splayed them out so that I was able to see them all at once.

"That's a bit weird.. There's a strong sexual atmosphere about this case. They were asphyxiated in their homes, hung, by a thick string of rope, that the killer brought himself, in their bedrooms, then an inverted pentagram was drawn in their blood, from a post mortem slit down the length of their left arm, on their bedroom walls," and as he raised an eyebrow at me, in a questioning way, I added, "What? I'm rather interested in religious symbolism."

He chuckled, creases appearing at the corners of his eyes, and out of my peripherals, I noticed that there was someone hovering outside of the room. That certain someone being a Doctor Spencer Reid; the object of my current interests. I turned my head to look over at him, and found that he had began retreating, his head thrown into some kind of book that I couldn't make out from this far away.

He followed my line of sight, and I noticed a smug expression fell onto his features. He chuckled, deeply, and said, "He's so into you, it's embarrassing."

I blushed deeply, and turned my face away from him, and he made a sound of indignation, and joked, "Sorry, that wasn't professional."

I shook my head, and shrugged; the very epitome of nonchalant, although inside, I was anything but, and I whispered those two words that held so much behind it.

"It's fine."

He cleared his throat, obviously understanding that I didn't really wish to talk about it, and went on, "Well, this case is going to get really weird, really fast."

I agreed, wholeheartedly, and I supplied, "Our killer is obviously some kind of deviant, maybe he's unable to perform, thus the lack of sexual intercourse, yet the obvious invasion of privacy, therein by leaving them uncovered."

Morgan nodded, and agreed, "That makes sense. I can see him being some kind of recluse."

I smirked, and, after a comfortable moment of silence, I asked, "You want a soda?"

He grinned, and said, "No thanks, I gotta get these new notes up to Hotch. Be packed and ready for 6 tonight, I'll pick you up. Where do you live?"

He handed me his phone, and I punched in my number and address, and he, in turn, gave me his number, and I beamed as he did so. Making friends here was going to be a lot easier now that Derek and I were kind of friends, and inside, I was jumping for joy that he went out of his way to lend me a helping hand.

He tucked his phone away in his jacket pocket, and said, finally, "Okay, so I'll be at yours for about half 5, is that okay? It's going to be a pretty slow day today, so why don't you take your time getting to know the place?"

I smiled, and took his advice.

"Sure, that sounds nice."

**I hope you like this!**

******_It's late, I know. I'm so sorry. I wasn't able to access wifi, so I'm sorry, my lovelies!_**


	36. Chapter 36

**Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Teen Wolf, but I would love me some Tyler Posey, Tyler Hoechlin and Dylan O****'****Brien. Oh yes, I would. And, I****'****m British, so if some of the jargon is different, I am sorry, but I have never been to America and know nothing of the speech. Also, I know next to nothing about the traditions in Japan or Ireland, but I****'****m going to guess. Please, don****'****t take offence. Thank you, enjoy my story, and have a great day.**

**Reid POV**

Charlotte arriving at the BAU was an unprecedented anomaly, which I was not prepared, mentally or physically, for. I couldn't have readied myself for the onslaught of emotions, if I didn't know they would have come about, and that was what knocked me off kilter. She sashayed in, enclosed in such a figure-hugging outfit, staring sinfully through my very being, lighting some of my more carnal desires, like a forest blaze. There was no saving me.

Then, having to watch her and Derek flirt, shamelessly, in the middle of the office? Well that must have been some kind of cruel and unusual punishment, because I felt a wrenching pull and tug at something not quite in, but around my stomach.

Why was this so hard to watch? Why couldn't I look away?

They were sitting far too close to each other to just have a platonic affiliation, and, considering they had only known each other, properly, for just over a week, back in December, there would be no reason for them to be so friendly with one another.

Unless.. They had been conversing over the last few months, without any of us noticing.

Now that I think about it, Derek has been far too chipper, as of late, and I had just whittled it down to him having gotten a raise of some kind. But no, of course it would have to have been her. They've probably already gotten together, and made it official, or whatever the equivalent to 'official' that Morgan can attest to.

Thinking about it alone literally has my blood boiling, and it made me sick to my stomach thinking of her and him, her any anyone else but me, in that kind of relationship. I wanted to be the one to make her smile like that. It was supposed to be me who held her in their arms, and made her laugh; I don't care how primitive that sounded, it was just how I felt, instinctually.

Derek had led along strings of women before her, and I couldn't let her become one of his flings. That would never happen, as long as I was around to protect her. I wouldn't interfere in their relationship if it was honest and true, I couldn't do that to either of them, but I would, if I had to. That was the promise I made for myself.

I couldn't remember the last time I felt so lost and fucking hormonal. It was beyond maddening. It reminded me of all those years I spent confused over the concept of sexuality, especially considering I was 14 years old, in college, alone and confused. The notion of sex was something that I hadn't even thought about until it was forcibly brought to light through a few of my dorm-mates. I say 'mates' when in actuality, they were nothing but overtly aggressive, angry young men who did nothing but objectify both men and women alike, and it made me very uncomfortable to be around, however I stuck through it, and now I'm the one who's on top.

_Most of the time._

A fairly sharp rap on my back forced me from my reverie, and I blinked, rapidly, in an attempt to shove away the memories.

"What's up, kid?"

I turned my head, and saw that I was looking into the dark brown eyes of Derek Morgan. And by his side was the ever-so-lovely Charlotte, and I decided that this conversation was one I would prefer to skip out on.

"Nothing really, just looking over the case."

He nodded, and I noticed that Charlotte couldn't even look in my direction, let alone actually in my eyes, and I found that my chest constricted somewhat painfully. Why were they still together? What did I do to deserve this punishment?

Morgan nudged Charlotte's shoulder, and I clenched my right fist tightly, in order to quell the urge to attack the nearest moving object. The surge of jealousy inside of my heart surprised me, as did the anger I felt towards one of my closest friends.

Why were they standing so fucking close to each other? Were they trying to merge into one sentient being? A smug grin suddenly made its way onto Morgan's face and I found hat I didn't like it one bit. He asked, "Reid, this is Agent Lewis. You remember her, right?"

I nodded, and scratched the shorter-than-usual hair behind my ear - a habit that I hadn't gotten myself out of. Without realising what I was doing, I had raised my hand out, ready for her to shake; something that was completely out of my character, considering I loathed contact, especially from people that I didn't really know, and I was more than a little bit surprised that her much smaller, softer and daintier hand wrapped around my own, and she gave a shy and gentle shake of her own in return. I felt Morgan's stare sear into my skin, and I couldn't help but shiver at the abrupt intensity.

"It's nice to meet you again, Doctor Reid."

I shook my head, immediately, and I corrected, "Spencer, please."

She nodded, her eyes wide and a polite, yet slightly uncomfortable smile gracing her features, clearly far too endearing to be legal. I realised that we were still holding each others hands, and Morgan was smirking in a way that told me more than words ever could. He was rubbing it in my face, wasn't he? I breathed a small sigh of annoyance, and I released her hand, begrudgingly yet as gently as I could.

Morgan chuckled into his fist, and sent me a quizzical stare - of which I chose to ignore. The awkwardness that settled upon the three of us was almost suffocating, and I felt the telltale signs of a lie bubbling on the tip of my tongue, just so I would be able to worm my way out of it. Thankfully, my phone began ringing inn my front pocket, and as I glanced at the caller I.D, I noted, that it said Bennington Sanatorium. It was something to do with my mother.

"I've got to go," and I lifted my phone in the air, "Nice meeting you."

And that was that. I turned and quickly bolted out of the office, into the monochrome corridor, and into the nearest elevator. I needed to leave as quickly as possible.

**I hope you noticed Reid's sexual innuendo, because if you didn't, then I might as well punch myself right now. Have a great day, lovelies!**


End file.
